UC-NRLF 


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BIRDS  OF 
SONG  8  STORY 


6LIZABCCH  AND 
JOS6PH  GRINNGLL 


V£f 

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LIBRARY 

OF    THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 


Class 


If  IS 


BIRDS  OF  SONG  AND 
STORY 


UNIVERSITY 

OF 


BIRDS  OF  SONG  AND 
STORY 


BY 

ELIZABETH  AND  JOSEPH  GRINNELL 


AUTHORS  OF  "  OUR  FEATHERED  FRIENDS 


'  And  now,  wouldst  thou,  O  man,  delight  the  ear 
With  earth's  delicious  sounds,  or  charm  the  eye 
With  beautiful  creations,  then  pass  forth 
And  find  them  midst  those  many-colored  birds 
That  rill  the  glowing  woods.    The  richest  hues 
Lie  in  their  splendid  plumage,  and  their  tones 
Are  sweeter  than  the  music  of  the  lute/1 


CHICAGO 

A.  W.  MUMFORD,  PUBLISHER 
1901 


COPYRIGHT,  1901 
BY  A.  W.  MUM  FORD 


CONTENTS 


Frontispiece 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

POEM,  THE  BIRDS  7 

SINGERS  AND  THEIR  SONGS         -  -  Illustration  9 

I     OUR  COMRADE  THE  ROBIN  Illustration  17 

II     THE  MOCKING-BIRD     -                 -  -  Illustration  29 

III  THE  CAT-BIRD      -  Illustration  36 

IV  THE  HERMIT-THRUSH                   -  -  Illustration  40 
V     THE  GROSBEAKS  Illustration  45 

VI     THE  ORIOLES  -  Illustration  53 

VII     THE  BIOGRAPHY  OF  A  CANARY-BIRD   -          Illustration  61 

VIII     SPARROWS  AND  SPARROWS  -  Illustration  73 

IX     THE  STORY  OF  THE  SUMMER  YELLOWBIRD       Illustration  83 

X     THE  BLUEBIRD  -  Illustration  94 

XI     THE  TANAGER  PEOPLE  Illustration  101 

XII     THE  MEADOW-LARK     -                 -  -  Illustration  107 

XIII  SKYLARK  (HORNED  LARK)     -  Illustration  115 

XIV  BOBOLINK      -»                                  -  -Illustration  121 
XV     AT  NESTING-TIME  130 

XVI     THE  ROMANCE  OF  ORNITHOLOGY  -  144 

INDEX    -                               -  151 


114399 


THE  BIRDS 

They  are  swaying  in  the  marshes, 

They  are  swinging  in  the  glen, 
Where  the  cat-tails  air  their  brushes 

In  the  zephyrs  of  the  fen; 
In  the  swamp's  deserted  tangle, 

Where  the  reed-grass  whets  its  scythes; 
In  the  dismal,  creepy  quagmire, 

Where  the  snake-gourd  twists  and  writhes. 

They  are  singing  in  arroyos, 

Where  the  cactus  mails  its  breast, 
Where  the  Spanish  bayonet  glistens 

On  the  steep  bank's  rocky  crest; 
In  the  canon,  where  the  cascade 

Sets  its  pearls  in  maiden-hair, 
Where  the  hay  and  holly  beckon 

Valley  sun  and  mountain  air. 

They  are  nesting  in  the  elbow 

Of  the  scrub-oak's  knotty  arm, 
In  the  gray  mesh  of  the  sage-brush, 

*In  the  wheat-fields  of  the  farm; 
In  the  banks  along  the  sea  beach, 

In  the  vine  above  my  door, 
In  the  outstretched,  clumsy  fingers 

Of  the  mottled  sycamore. 

While  the  church-bell  rings  its  discourse 

They  are  sitting  on  the  spires; 
Song  and  anthem,  psalm  and  carol 

Quaver  as  from  mystic  lyres. 
Everywhere  they  flirt  and  flutter, 

Mate  and  nest  in  shrub  and  tree. 
Charmed,  I  wander  yon  and  hither, 

While  their  beauties  ravish  me, 

7 


8  Birds  of  Song  and  Story 


Till  my  musings  sing  like  thrushes, 

And  my  heart  is  like  a  nest, 
Softly  lined  with  tender  fancies 

Plucked  from  Nature's  mother-breast. 

ELIZABETH  GRINNELL. 


SINGERS  AND  THEIR  SONGS 

And  hark!    The  nightingale  begins  its  song, — 

"  Most  musical,  most  melancholy  bird." 

A  melancholy  bird?    Oh,  idle  thought. 

In  nature  there  is  nothing  melancholy. 

....  *T  is  the  merry  nightingale 

That  crowds,  and  hurries,  and  precipitates 

With  fast,  thick  warble  his  delicious  notes. 

COLERIDGE. 

Some  barbarous  peoples  possess  a  rude  taste  for  the 
beautiful  plumage  of  birds,  decorating  their  bodies  in  feathers 
of  softest  and  brightest  tints.  But  we  have  record  of  few,  if 
any,  savage  tribes  the  world  over  which  delight  in  bird 
melody.  True,  the  savage  may  seek  his  food  by  sound,  or 
even  song,  but  to  feast  the  ear  on  music  for  music's  sake — 
ah,  this  is  reserved  for  culture. 

An  ear  cultivated  to  melody  is  one  of  the  soul's  luxuries. 
Attuned  to  sweet  and  varied  sound,  it  may  become  the  guide 
to  bird  secrets  never  imparted  to  the  eye. 

Sitting  in  the  close  shrubbery  of  a  home  garden,  or  crouch- 
ing moveless  in  a  forest,  one  may  catch  whispers  of  bird 
language  never  imparted  to  human  ears  when  the  listener  is 
moving  about  or  talking  with  a  comrade. 

If  one  has  accidentally  or  by  patience  discovered  the  even- 
ing resort  of  shy  birds,  let  him  precede  the  birds  by  half  an 
hour.  Sitting  low  among  rocks  or  fallen  trees,  having  the 
forethought  to  wear  plainly  colored  clothes,  and  as  moveless 
as  the  neighboring  objects,  one  may  be  treated  to  such  a  feast 
of  sounds  as  will  both  surprise  and  entertain  him.  The  birds 

9 


io  Birds  of  Song  and  Story 

will  come  close,  and  even  hop  over  one's  coat  sleeves  and 
shoes,  though  so  much  as  a  full-fledged  wink  may  dissipate  the 
charm. 

Just  before  bedtime  there  are  whisperings,  and  salutes, 
and  low-voiced  conversations,  and  love  notes,  and  "O's"  and 
"Ah's"  at  sight  of  a  belated  insect,  and  lullaby  ditties,  and  if 
one  be  possessed  of  a  good  deal  of  imagination,  "evening 
prayers. ' ' 

Birds  that  fly  from  their  night-time  perches  in  the  thick 
shrubbery  in  the  morning  dusk  with  a  whirr,  and  a  scream,  or 
emphatic  call-note,  in  evening  time  just  whisper  or  sing  in 
half-articulate  tones. 

To  be  out  in  their  haunts  late  in  the  day  and  very  early  in 
the  dawn  is  to  learn  things  about  birds  one  never  forgets. 
And  if  one  chance  to  remain  late  at  night,  one  may  often  hear 
some  feathered  person  mumble,  or  talk,  or  scold,  or  complain, 
or  sing  a  short  melody,  in  his  sleep.  Some  students  of  bird- 
lore  suggest  that  all-night  singers,  like  the  mockers,  and  some 
thrushes,  do  "talk  in  their  sleep,"  instead  of  from  intent  and 
choice.  If  one  will  watch  a  tame  canary  in  its  cage  one  may 
hear  a  very  low,  sweet  warble  from  the  bird  while  its  head  is 
tucked  under  its  feathers.  This  act  wakens  the  little  creature, 
and  it  may  be  seen  to  finish  its  note  while  it  looks  about  in 
the  lamp-light  in  a  half-bewildered  way. 

Take  our  domestic  fowls!  Go  noiselessly  out  to  the 
chicken  roost  and  stand  stock-still  for  a  while.  Now  and 
then  some  hen  or  cock  will  speak  a  few  words  in  its  own 
language,  in  a  rambling,  dozing  way.  Then  the  suggestion 
passes  on,  and  perhaps  half  a  dozen  individuals  engage  in 
nocturnal  conversation.  One,  more  "nervous"  from  yester- 
day's overwork  perhaps,  actually  has  a  nightmare,  and  cackles 


Singers  and  Their  Songs  n 

in  fright.  All  this  has  no  connection  with  the  usual  time  for 
the  head  of  the  family  to  give  his  warning  crow  that  midnight 
or  daytime  is  close  at  hand  and  there  is  scarcely  time  for 
another  wink  of  sleep. 

Once  in  the  secret  of  bird  notes,  even  a  blind  person  may 
locate  the  immediate  vicinity  of  a  nest.  And  he  may  identify 
species  by  the  call-notes  and  songs.  We  have  a  blind  girl 
neighbor  who  declares  she  would  rather  have  her  hearing  than 
her  sight,  she  has  learned  so  well  to  hear  what  her  sight  might 
deprive  her  of. 

When  once  the  ear  has  learned  its  better  lessons,  glimpses, 
so  to  speak,  of  bird  life  flutter  to  it  as  naturally  as  leaves 
flutter  to  the  sward  in  autumn.  It  is  the  continual  chatter, 
chatter,  that  deprives  many  of  us  of  the  best  enjoyments  of 
life.  We  talk  when  we  should  listen.  Nature  speaks  low 
more  often  than  she  shouts.  A  taciturn  child  or  person 
finds  out  things  that  are  worth  the  habit  of  keeping  still  to 
know. 

These  remarks  are  in  the  interest  of  singing  birds.  A 
bird  is  sometimes  interrupted,  and  comes  to  a  sudden  stop. 
A  footstep,  a  word,  a  laugh,  and  the  very  next  note  is  swal- 
lowed by  the  singer.  By  studying  our  songsters  one  may 
come  to  know  for  one's  self  how  individuals  differ  even 
among  the  same  species. 

There  is  the  sad-voiced  phcebe!  Even  she  forgets  her 
customary  dismal  cry  at  certain  times  when  flies  are  winging 
their  midday  dance  on  invisible  floors  that  never  were  waxed. 
It  is  when  she  takes  a  "flat  stand"  on  the  roof-corner  and 
"bewails  her  lot"  that  her  notes  are  utterly  disconsolate. 
Take  a  couple  of  phoebes  on  a  cloudy  day,  just  after  "one's 
folks  have  gone  away  from  home  on  a  long  visit,"  and  nothing 


12  Birds  of  Song  and  Story 

lends  an  aid  to  sorrow  like  their  melancholy  notes.  Really 
we  do  believe  phcebe  thinks  he  is  singing.  But  he  has 
mistaken  his  calling.  Some  of  the  goldfinches  have  a  plain- 
tive note,  especially  while  nesting,  which  appeals  to  the 
gloomy  side  of  the  listener,  if  he  chance  to  have  such  a  side. 
Were  Coleridge  listening  to  either  of  these,  the  phcebe 
or  the  goldfinch,  he  would  doubtless  say,  in  answer  to  the 
charge  of  sadness: 

"A  melancholy  bird?     Oh,  idle  thought! 
In  nature  there  is  nothing  melancholy." 

And  he  would  have  us  believe  the  birds  are  "merry"  when 
they  sing. 

And  so  they  shall  be  merry.  Even  the  mourning  dove 
shall  make  us  glad.  She  does  not  intend  to  mourn ;  the 
appearance  of  sadness  being  only  the  cadence  of  her  natural 
voice.  She  has  not  learned  the  art  of  modulation;  though 
the  bluebird  and  the  robin  and  all  the  thrushes  call  her  atten- 
tion to  the  matter  every  year. 

If  one  will  closely  watch  a  singer,  unbeknown  to  him, 
when  he  is  in  the  very  act,  one  may  note  the  varying  expres- 
sion of  the  body,  from  the  tip  of  his  beak  to  the  tip  of  his 
tail.  Sometimes  he  will  stand  still  with  closely  fitting  plu- 
mage and  whole  attitude  on  tiptoe.  Sometimes  he  will  crouch, 
and  lift  the  plumage,  and  gyrate  gracefully,  or  flutter,  or  soar 
off  at  random  on  quick  wings. 

Sometimes  he  sings  flat  on  the  breast  like  a  song-sparrow, 
or  again  high  up  in  the  sky  like  the  lark.  However  he  sings, 
heaven  bless  the  singer!  "The  earth  would  be  a  cheerless 
place  were  there  no  more  of  these." 

But  legend  tells  the  story  of  singing  birds  in  its  own  way 


Singers  and  Their  Songs  13 

— the  story  of  a  time  long,  long  eons  ago,  when  not  a  single 
bird  made  glad  the  heart  of  anything  or  anybody. 

True,  there  were  some  large  sea  birds  and  great  walking 
land  birds,  too  deformed  for  any  one  to  recognize  as  birds  in 
these  days,  but  there  was  no  such  thing  as  a  singing  bird. 

One  day  there  came  a  great  spring  freshet,  the  greatest 
freshet  ever  dreamed  of,  and  all  the  land  animals  sought 
shelter  in  the  trees  and  high  mountains.  But  the  water  came 
up  to  the  peaks  and  over  the  treetops,  and  sorrow  was  in  all 
the  world.  Suddenly  a  giraffe,  stretching  its  long  neck  in  all 
directions,  espied  a  big  boat  roofed  over  like  a  house.  The 
giraffe  made  signs  to  the  elephant,  and  the  elephant  gave  the 
signal,  as  elephants  to  this  day  do  give  signals  that  are  heard 
for  many  a  mile,  so  they  say !  Then  there  came  a  scurrying 
for  the  big  boat.  A  few  of  all  the  animals  got  on  board,  by 
hook  or  crook,  and  the  rain  was  coming  down  in  sheets. 
All  at  once  along  came  the  lizards,  crawling  up  the  sides  of 
the  boat  and  hunting  for  cracks  and  knot-holes  to  crawl  into, 
just  as  lizards  are  in  the  habit  of  doing  on  the  sly  to  this  day. 
But  not  a  crack  or  knot-hole  could  they  find  in  the  boat's 
side;  for  the  loose  places,  wide  enough  for  a  lizard  to  flatten 
himself  into,  had  all  been  filled  up  with  gum,  or  something. 

Then  the  lizards  began  to  hiss,  exactly  the  way  they  hiss 
to  this  day  when  they  are  frightened;  and  the  big  animals 
inside  the  boat  poked  out  their  noses  to  see  what  was 
to  pay. 

"Oh,  they  are  nothing  but  lizards!"  exclaimed  the  giraffe 
to  the  elephant,  who  had  naturally  taken  possession  of  more 
than  his  share  of  the  only  foothold  in  existence.  "Let  them 
drown  in  the  freshet." 

But  a  big,  awkward  land  bird,  with  teeth,  and  a  tail  like  a 


14  Birds  of  Song  and  Story 

church  steeple,  took  pity  on  the  lizards  and  gnawed  a  hole  in 
the  wall  of  the  boat. 

Of  course  in  trooped  the  lizards.  Once  in,  they  disposed 
themselves  in  nooks  and  corners,  and  right  under  the  flapping 
ears  of  the  elephant  and  between  the  pointed  ears  of  the 
giraffe.  And  they  began  to  whisper. 

It  was  a  very  low,  hissing  whisper,  as  if  they  had  never 
gotten  farther  than  the  s's  in  the  alphabet,  but  the  big  ani- 
mals understood. 

Plenty  of  room  was  made  for  the  lizards,  and  they  were 
allowed  to  make  a  square  meal  now  and  then  on  the  flies  that 
had  come  in  at  the  boat's  door,  uninvited,  plenty  of  them. 

After  a  few  days  the  spring  freshet  came  to  an  end,  and 
the  giraffe  opened  the  door  of  the  boat-house  and  looked 
out.  He  made  signs  to  the  elephant,  and  the  elephant  gave 
the  signal,  and  out  walked  all  the  animals  on  "dry  ground," 
which,  to  tell  the  truth,  was  rather  muddy. 

When  all  the  other  creatures  were  out  of  the  boat  it 
came  the  lizard's  turn.  But  the  elephant  and  the  giraffe 
bethought  them  of  something,  and  turned  back  to  the  boat 
"You  promised  us!  You  promised  us!"  they  cried,  to  the 
wriggling  lizards  that  hadn't  a  single  thing  about  them  to 
make  anybody  desire  their  company  in  land  or  sea. 

"So  we  did  promise,"  they  answered,  hissing  their  words. 

Then  the  lizards  all  turned  facing  each  other  in  rows,  and 
stuck  out  their  long  tongues  just  as  lizards  do  to  this  day,  and 
breathed  on  one  another,  and  made  a  sizzling  noise.  Sud- 
denly, from  each  side  of  their  long  tails  appeared  pin-feathers, 
which  grew  very  fast,  till  the  scales  were  all  disappeared. 
And  then  little  baby  feathers  appeared  on  their  backs,  and 
breasts,  and  fore  legs,  or  arms,  which  overlapped  each  other 


Singers  and  Their  Songs  15 

like  scales,  and  were  beautiful  and  soft  and  many-tinted. 
Beaks  grew  in  place  of  the  wide  mouths ;  only  the  hind  legs 
were  left  as  they  were.  But  these,  too,  began  to  change! 
They  grew  long,  and  slim,  and  hard,  but  the  nails  remained 
as  they  were  before,  only  stronger.  Then  the  lizards  were 
reptiles  no  longer,  but  beautiful  birds.  And  with  one  accord 
they  began  to  sing,  each  singing  a  different  song  from  his 
neighbor,  and  making  the  clear  air  ring  with  melody. 

And  the  giraffe  made  signs  to  the  elephant,  and  the 
elephant  signaled  all  the  other  animals  to  return.  And  so 
they  returned.  And  they  could  hardly  believe  their  eyes 
when  the  elephant  told  them  these  were  the  crawling  lizards 
that  had  come  into  the  boat-house  the  last  thing.  But  he 
assured  them  they  were  the  "very  same."  And  then  he 
told  them  how  the  lizards  had  promised  him  and  the  big 
giraffe  that  if  they  would  be  permitted  to  stay  in  the  boat 
with  the  rest  until  the  spring  freshet  was  over,  they  would  be 
"angels"  ever  afterward,  and  spend  all  their  time,  when  they 
were  not  eating  and  sleeping,  in  making  glad  melody  for  all 
the  animal  world. 

While  the  giraffe  was  speaking  the  birds  lifted  their  wings, 
which  an  hour  before  were  bare  arms,  and  soared  out  and  up 
into  the  blue  sky,  singing  as  they  went. 

And  this  was  the  origin  of  the  singing  birds.  To  explain 
how,  to  this  day,  there  are  plenty  of  lizards  of  all  sizes  and 
colors,  the  legend  hints  a  sequel  to  the  story.  Not  all  of  the 
lizards  were  able  or  even  willing  to  go  into  the  boat-house, 
being  naturally  shy,  and  the  holes  the  big  bird  pecked  in  the 
walls  were  all  too  soon  sealed  up. 

Almost  drowned,  the  remaining  lizards  crept  up  on  the 
backs  of  the  great  water  dragons,  the  leviathan,  and  behemoth, 


1 6  Birds  of  Song  and  Story 

which  nobody  knows  anything  about  in  our  days,  and  so  were 
saved. 

Anyhow,  we  have  them,  on  warm  days  sunning  them- 
selves on  fence-rails  and  bare  rocks,  or  scurrying  under  the 
stumps  and  stones.  But  they  are  always  on  good  terms  with 
the  birds,  for  we  have  seen  them  basking  in  the  sun  together, 
and  they  eat  the  selfsame  insects. 

The  lizards  are  no  doubt  discussing  with  the  birds  the  ap- 
proach of  another  spring  freshet,  when  they,  too,  will  bethink 
them  of  the  boat-house,  and  so  come  by  feathers  and  songs. 

Harmless  they  are,  as  the  birds,  whom  they  resemble  in 
many  ways.  We  have  taught  some  of  them  to  drink  milk 
and  honey  from  a  teaspoon,  and  to  peck  at  insects  in  our 
fingers,  to  come  at  our  call,  and  to  lie  in  our  hands.  To 
some  they  are  beautiful  creatures;  to  others  they  are  "nothing 
but  lizards."  Boys  throw  stones  at  them,  and  girls  wish 
there  were  no  lizards,  they  "are  so  ugly." 

Oh,  the  pity  of  it !  If  these  would  but  turn  the  creatures 
tenderly  over,  they  would  see  beautiful  colors  on  the  under 
side,  that  sparkle  and  glisten  like  the  breast  of  a  brightly 
tinted  bird.  We  are  acquainted  with  one  lizard  as  long  as  a 
mocking-bird,  with  a  breast  as  silver-gray.  And  we  love  to 
think  of  the  time  (of  course  it  is  imagination,  though  they  do 
say  there  is  possibly  some  truth  in  it)  when  another  spring 
freshet,  or  something,  will  turn  the  little  reptile  into  the  bird 
he  resembles. 


CHAPTER    I 

OUR   COMRADE   THE    ROBIN 

Robin,  Sir  Robin,  gay-vested  knight, 
Now  you  have  come  to  us,  summer's  in  sight; 
You  never  dream  of  the  wonders  you  bring — 
Visions  that  follow  the  flash  of  your  wing. 
How  all  the  beautiful  by  and  by 
Around  you  and  after  you  seems  to  fly; 
Sing  on,  or  eat  on,  as  pleases  your  mind, 
Well  have  you  earned  every  morsel  you  find. 
"Aye!  ha!  ha!  ha!"  whistles  Robin.    My  dear, 
Let  us  all  take  our  own  choice  of  good  cheer. 

LUCY  LARCOM. 

On  account  of  its  generous  distribution,  and  the  affection 
for  the  bird  in  the  heart  of  Young  America  and  England 
alike,  the  robin  shall  be  given  first  place  among  the  singing 
birds.  He  is  the  "  Little  Wanderer" — as  the  name  signifies — 
the  "Robin-son  Crusoe"  of  almost  every  clime  and  race. 

True,  he  may  be  a  warbler  instead  of  a  thrush  in  the  Old 
World;  but  what  does  that  signify?  To  whatever  class  or 
family  he  may  belong  by  right  of  birth  and  legend,  the  bird 
of  the  red  breast  is  the  bird  of  the  human  breast. 

It  is  impossible  to  study  the  early  history  of  birds  in  any 
language  and  not  stumble  upon  legend  and  superstition.  And 
the  more  we  read  of  these  the  more  we  come  to  delight  in 
them.  There  may  not  be  a  bit  of  truth  in  the  matter,  but 
there  is  fascination.  It  is  like  delving  among  the  dust  and 
cobwebs  of  an  old  attic.  The  more  dust  and  cobwebs,  the 
more  fun  in  coming  upon  things  one  never  went  in  quest  of. 

17 


\ 

1 8  Birds  of  Song  and  Story 

Of  course  superstition  has  its  objections;  but  when  the 
robin  is  the  point  at  issue,  we  may  waive  objections  and  go  on 
our  merry  ways  satisfied  that  the  oldest  and  clearest  head  in 
the  family  will  concur. 

Legends  concerning  our  comrade  the  robin  are  full  of 
tender  thought  of  him.  They  have  kept  his  memory  green 
through  the  rain  and  shine  of  centuries,  even  going  so  far  as 
to  embalm  him  after  death,  as  will  be  seen. 

It  is  well-nigh  impossible  to  give  the  earliest  date  in  which 
the  robin  is  mentioned  as  a  "sacred  bird."  Certain  it  is  that 
he  ranks  with  characters  of  "ye  olden  time,"  for  myth  and 
superstition  enshrined  him.  The  literature  of  many  tongues 
has  preserved  him.  Poetry  and  sculpture  have  embodied 
him  and  given  him  place  among  the  gods  and  winged  beings 
that  inhabit  the  "neighbor  world."  Did  he  not  scorch  his 
original  gray  breast  by  taking  his  daily  drop  of  water  to  lost 
souls?  Did  he  not  stain  it  by  pressing  his  faithful  heart 
against  the  crown  of  thorns?  Or,  did  he  not  burn  it  in  the 
Far  North  when  he  fanned  back  into  flame  the  dying  embers 
which  the  polar  bear  thought  to  have  trampled  out  in  his 
wrath  that  white  men  invaded  his  shores?  Was  he  not  always 
the  "pious  bird?" — though  it  must  be  confessed  that  his 
beak  alone  seemed  to  be  possessed  of  religious  tendencies. 
Was  he  not  the  original  church  sexton  who  covered  the 
dead,  with  impartial  beak,  from  eye  of  sun  and  man,  piling 
high  and  dry  the  woodland  leaves  about  them?  The  wander- 
ing minstrel,  the  orphan  child,  or  the  knight  of  kingly  robe, 
each  shared  his  sweet  charity. 

The  English  ballad  of  the  "Babes  in  the  Wood"  immor- 
talized his  memory  in  poetical  sentiment : 


Our  Comrade  the  Robin  19 

"  Their  little  corpse  the  robin-redbreast  found, 
And  strewed  with  pious  bills  the  leaves  around." 

Earlier  than  the  pathetic  career  of  these  Babes,  homage 
was  paid  to  the  robins, 

"  Who  with  leaves  and  flowers  do  cover 
The  friendless  bodies  of  unburied  men." 

This  superstition  of  the  robin's  art  in  caring  for  the  dead 
runs  through  many  of  the  old  poets,  Drayton,  Grahame, 
Hood,  Herrick,  and  others.  Strict  justice  in  the  matter 
would  have  divided  the  praise  of  him  with  the  charitable 
night  winds,  for  it  was  they  more  than  he  who  "covered 
friendless  bodies."  The  sylvan  shades  of  the  Old  World 
being  then  more  comprehensive  than  now,  unburied  men, 
from  any  cause,  found  their  last  resting-place  in  the  lap  of 
the  forest,  sleeping  wherever  they  fell,  since  no  .laws  of 
"decent  burial"  governed  the  wilds.  The  night  winds,  true 
to  their  instincts  then  as  now,  swirled  the  fallen  leaves  about 
any  object  in  their  way,  in  the  fashion  of  a  burial  shroud.  As 
a  matter  of  course,  credit  was  given  to  the  robin,  whose 
voracious  appetite  always  led  him  to  plunder  litter  of  any  sort 
in  search  of  food.  Up  bright  and  early,  as  is  still  his  habit 
(since  at  this  hour  he  is  able  to  waylay  the  belated  night 
insect),  the  robin  was  spied  bestirring  the  forest  leaves,  and 
unbeknown  to  himself  was  sainted  for  all  time. 

And  his  duties  were  not  confined  to  those  of  sexton  alone, 
for,  according  to  good  witnesses,  he  became  both  sculptor 
and  clergyman — 

"  For  robin-redbreasts  when  I  die 
Make  both  my  monument  and  elegy," 


20  Birds  of  Song  and  Story 

— stripping,  as  they  were  supposed  to  do,  the  foliage  from  the 
trees  on  which  to  write  their  elegies,  and  so  leaving  the 
uncovered  trunks  as  monumental  shafts. 

According  to  tradition,  it  was  the  robin  who  originated  the 
first  conception  of  decorating  the  graves  of  martyrs. 

"The  robin-redbreast  oft  at  evening  hours 

Shall  kindly  lend  his  aid, 
With  hoary  moss  and  gathered  flowers 
To  deck  the  grave  where  thou  art  laid." 

And  again  from  one  of  the  old  poets,  who  was  naturally 
anxious  that  his  own  last  rites  should  be  proper  as  well  as 
pathetic: 

"And  while  the  wood  nymphs  my  old  corpse  inter, 
Sing  thou  my  dirge,  sweet-warbling  chorister ; 
My  epitaph  in  foliage  next  write  this  : 
'  Here,  here,  the  tomb  of  Robert  Herrick  is.'  " 

And  so  it  came  to  pass,  by  the  patronage  of  the  poets, 
that  in  the  early  centuries  this  little  bird  came  to  be  protected 
by  an  affectionate,  unwritten  law.  To  molest  a  redbreast  was 
to  bring  the  swift  vengeance  of  lightning  on  the  house.  The 
ancient  boy  knew  better,  if  he  cherished  his  personal  safety, 
than  to  steal  a  young  bird  for  the  purpose  of  captivity,  for 

"A  robin  in  a  cage 
Sets  all  heaven  in  a  rage." 

The  " sobbing,  sobbing  of  pretty,  pretty  robin"  would 
surely  call  down  upon  the  head  of  the  luckless  thief  the  dire 
displeasure  of  the  deities;  as  runs  the  rhyme,  meant  in  all 
reverence  (as  it  should  also  be  quoted): 

"  The  robin  and  the  wren 
Are  God  Almighty's  cock  and  hen. 
Him  that  harries  their  nest 
Never  shall  his  soul  have  rest." 


Our  Comrade  the  Robin  21 

Terrible  punishments  were  thus  meted  out  to  the  ancient 
urchin  whose  instincts  would  lead  him  to  rob  bird's  nests. 

In  Pilgrim's  Progress,  Christiana  is  said  to  have  been 
greatly  astonished  at  seeing  a  robin  with  a  spider  in  its  beak. 
Said  she,  "What  a  disparagement  it  is  to  such  a  little,  pretty 
bird  as  the  robin-redbreast  is,  he  being  also  a  bird  above 
many,  that  loveth  to  maintain  a  kind  of  sociableness  with  man ; 
I  had  thought  they  had  lived  on  crumbs  of  bread — I  like  him 
worse  than  I  did." 

And  the  wordy-wise  Interpreter,  to  clinch  a  moral  lesson 
in  the  mind  of  the  religious  woman,  explained  how  the  robins 
"when  they  are  by  themselves,  catch  and  gobble  up  spiders; 
they  can  change  their  diet  (like  the  ungodly  hypocrite),  drink 
iniquity,  and  swallow  down  sin  like  water."  And  so,  obedient 
to  her  spiritual  adviser,  Christiana  liked  the  robin  "worse 
than  she  did."  Poor  soul;  she  should  have  observed  for 
herself  that  for  a  robin  to  gobble  up  a  spider  is  no  "iniquity." 
Did  she  think  that  crumbs  grew  on  bushes,  ready  made  for 
early  breakfast,  or  that  the  under  side  of  woodland  leaves  was 
buttered  to  order? 

Spiders  the  robin  must  have,  else  how  could  he  obtain 
the  strings  for  his  harp?  Wherever  the  spider  spins  her 
thread,  there  is  her  devotee,  the  robin.  He  may  not  be  seen 
to  pluck  and  stretch  the  threads,  but  the  source  of  them  he 
loves,  and  he  says  his  best  grace  above  this  dainty  of  his 
board.  Our  pet  robin  was  known  to  stand  patiently  by  the 
crack  of  a  door,  asking  that  it  be  opened  wider,  as,  in  his 
opinion,  a  spider  was  hiding  behind  it.  He  heard  her  stock- 
inged tread,  as  he  hears  also  the  slippered  feet  of  the  grub 
in  the  garden  sod — provided  the  grubs  have  feet,  which  it  is 
known  they  can  do  tolerably  well  without. 


22  Birds  of  Song  and  Story 

Sure  it  is  the  world  over,  be  he  thrush  or  warbler,  the 
robin  is  partial  to  bread  and  butter;  to  bread  thrice  buttered 
if  he  can  get  it.  Fat  of  any  sort  he  craves.  The  more  prac- 
tical than  sentimental  believe  that  he  uses  it  in  the  prepa- 
ration of  the  " colors  done  in  oil"  with  which  he  tints  his 
breast.  For  lack  of  oil,  therefore,  where  it  is  not  provided 
by  his  friends,  or  discovered  by  himself,  his  breast  is  under- 
done in  color,  paling  even  to  dusky  hue;  so  that,  would  you 
have  a  redbreast  of  deepest  dye,  be  liberal  with  his  but- 
tered bread. 

And  his  yellow  mouth!  Ah,  it  is  the  color  of  spring 
butter  when  the  dandelions  are  astir,  oozing  out,  as  it  were, 
when  he  is  very  young,  as  if  for  suggestion  to  those  who  love 
him. 

The  historical  wedding  of  Cock  Robin  to  Jenny  Wren 
was  the  result  of  anxiety  on  the  part  of  mutual  friends  who 
would  unite  their  favorite  birds.  The  "courtship/'  the 
"merry  marriage,"  the  "picnic  dinner, "  and  the  rest  of  the 
tragedy  are  well  described.  Alas,  for  the  death  and  burial  of 
the  robin-groom,  who  did  not  live  to  enjoy  the  bliss  of 
wedded  life  as  prearranged  by  his  solicitous  friends.  But 
the  affair  went  merry  as  a  marriage-bell  for  a  while,  and  was 
good  until  fortunes  changed. 

All  the  birds  of  the  air  combined  to  make  the  event  a 
happy  one,  and  they  dined  and  they  supped  in  elegant  style. 

"  For  each  took  a  bumper 
And  drank  to  the  pair; 
Cock  Robin  the  bridegroom, 
And  Jenny  Wren  the  fair." 

Just  as  the  dinner  things  were  being  removed,  and  the 
bird  guests  were  singing  "fit  to  be  heard  a  mile  around,"  in 


Our  Comrade  the  Robin 


23 


stalked  the  Cuckoo,  who  it  is  presumed  had  not  been  invited 
to  the  wedding,  and  was  angry  at  being  slighted.  He  rudely 
began  pulling  the  bride  all  about  by  her  pretty  clothes,  which 
aroused  the  temper  of  the  groom,  naturally  enough,  as  who 
could  wonder?  His  best  man,  the  Sparrow,  went  out  and 
armed  himself,  his  weapons  being  the  bow  and  arrow,  and 
took  his  usual  steady  aim  to  hit  the  intruder,  but,  like  many 
another  excited  marksman,  he  missed  his  aim,  and,  oh,  the 
pity  of  it!  shot  Cock  Robin  himself.  (It  was  an  easy  way 
for  the  poet  to  dispose  of  the  affair,  as  he  knew  very  well 
a  robin  and  a  wren  couldn't  mate,  in  truth.) 

Nor  did  the  Sparrow  deny  his  unintentional  blunder  when 
it  came  to  the  trial.  There  were  witnesses  in  plenty;  and 
Robin  was  given  a  splendid  burial — Robin  who  had  himself 
officiated  at  many  a  ceremony  of  the  same  sad  sort. 

It  is  a  pathetic  tale,  as  any  one  may  see  who  reads  it,  and 
served  the.  purpose  of  stimulating  sympathy  for  the  birds. 
We  have  forgiven  the  sparrow  for  his  blunder,  as  will  be 
seen  later  on ;  for  in  consequence  of  it,  the  birds  were  called 
up  in  line  and  made  to  do  something,  thus  distinguishing 
themselves  as  no  idlers. 

The  mating  of  Robin  with  Jenny  Wren  proved  a  failure, 
of  course,  so  we  have  our  dear  "twa  birds,"  the  robins,  as 
near  alike  as  two  peas,  when  the  male  is  not  singing  and  the 
female  is  not  cuddling  her  nest.  A  trifle  brighter  of  tint  is 
the  male  (in  North  America),  but  the  two.  combine,  like  any 
staid  farmer  and  his  wife,  in  getting  a  living  out  of  the  soil. 
Hand  in  hand,  as  it  were,  they  wander  about  the  country 
anywhere  under  the  flag,  at  home  wherever  it  rains;  but 
returning  to  the  same  locality,  with  true  homing  instinct,  as 
often  as  the  springtime  suggests  the  proper  season  for  family 


24  Birds  of  Song  and  Story 

affairs;  completing  these  same  affairs  in  time  to  look  after 
their  winter  outfit  of  clothes.  This  last  more  on  account  of 
their  annual  shabby  condition  than  by  reason  of  the  rigors  of 
cold,  for  they  change  climate  as  often  as  health  and  happi- 
ness (including,  of  course,  food)  require. 

True,  some  penalties  attach  to  this  sudden  and  frequent 
change,  but  the  robins  accept  whatever  comes  to  them  with  a 
protest  of  song,  returning  good  for  evil,  even  when  charged 
with  stealing  more  fruit  than  the  law  allows.  It  is  impossible 
to  compare  the  good  they  do  with  any  possible  harm,  since 
the  insect  harvest-time  is  always,  and  the  robin's  farming  im- 
plements never  grow  rusty. 

Always  in  the  wake  of  the  robins  is  the  sharp-shinned 
hawk  and  many  another  winged  enemy,  for  their  migrations 
are  followed  by  faithful  foes  who  secrete  themselves  in  the 
shadows.  We  deprived  one  of  these  desperadoes  of  his  din- 
ner before  he  had  so  much  as  tasted  it,  also  of  his  pleasure 
in  obtaining  another,  for  we  brought  him  down  in  the  very 
act,  and  rescued  his  victim  only  by  prying  apart  the  reluctantly 
dying  claws. 

But  whatever  may  be  said  of  hawks  and  such  other 
hungry  beings  who  lay  no  claim  to  a  vegetable  diet,  their  so- 
called  cruelty  should  be  overlooked,  since  it  is  impossible  to 
draw  the  lines  without  affecting  the  robin  himself.  For  see 
with  what  excusable  greed  he  snatches  at  winged  beings  which 
happen  to  light  for  a  rest  in  their  flight,  or  draws  the  protest- 
ing earth-worm  from  its  sunless  corridors.  It  is  a  law  of 
nature,  and  grace  must  provide  absolution.  So  must  also  the 
bird-lover,  supposing  in  his  charitable  heart  that  worms  and 
flies  delight  in  being  made  over  into  new  and  better  loved 
individuals. 


Our  Comrade  the  Robin  25 

Would  the  bird-lover  actually  convert  this  redbreast  from 
the  error  of  his  victual  ways,  he  may  do  so  by  substituting 
cooked  or  raw  food  from  his  own  table.  The  robin  is  an  apt 
student  of  civilization,  and  adopts  the  ways  of  its  reformers 
with  relish.  As  to  the  statement  that  robins  require  a  diet 
of  worms  to  insure  life  and  growth,  we  can  say  that  we  have 
raised  a  whole  family  on  bread  and  milk  alone  with  perfect 
success.  True,  we  allowed  them  a  bit  of  watermelon  in 
melon  season,  but  they  used  it  more  as  a  newfangled  bath 
than  as  a  food,  actually  rolling  in  it,  and  pasting  their  feathers 
together  with  the  sticky  juice.  The  farmer's  orchard  is  the 
robin's  own  patch  of  ground,  and  he  revels  in  its  varied  boun- 
ties. A  pair  of  them  know  at  a  glance  the  very  crotch  in 
the  apple-tree  which  grew  three  prongs  on  purpose  for  their 
nest.  The  extreme  center,  scooped  to  a  thimble's  capacity, 
suggests  the  initial  post-hole  for  a  proper  foundation.  The 
said  post  may  be  placed  directly  across  it,  but  that  does  not 
change  the  idea.  Above  is  the  parting  of  the  boughs,  across 
whose  inverted  arches  sticks  alternate,  and  so  on  up.  And 
atop  of  straws  and  leaves  and  sticks  is  the  "loving  cup'*  of 
clay,  with  its  soft  lining  of  vegetable  fiber  and  grasses.  What 
care  the  robins  that  little  cover  roofs  them  and  their  young? 
Are  they  not  water  birds  by  nature,  and  wind  birds  as  well? 
(Our  pet  sat  for  hours  at  a  time  in  hot  weather  emersed 
to  his  ears  in  the  bath,  and  even  sang  low  notes  while  he 
soaked.)  Birds  of  spring  freshets  and  June  winds,  they  dote 
on  the  weather,  and  bring  off  their  young  ones  as  success- 
fully as  their  neighbors.  What  if  a  nest  be  blown  down  now 
and  then?  The  school-boy,  in  passing,  puts  it  back  in  its  place 
and  sees  that  every  birdling  goes  with  it;  while  the  old  birds 
above  him,  shedding  water  like  a  goose,  thank  him  for  his  pains. 


26  Birds  of  Song  and  Story 

The  orchardist  who  plants  a  mulberry-tree  in  his  apple 
rows,  though  he  himself  scorns  the  insipid  sweetness  of  the 
fruit,  ranks  with  any  philanthropist  in  that  he  foresees  the 
needs  of  a  little  soul  which  loves  the  society  of  man  more 
than  anything  else  in  the  world. 

By  the  planting  of  the  mulberry-tree  he  plants  a  thought 
in  the  breast  of  his  little  son.  "I  don't  like  mulberries, 
father.  What  makes  you  set  out  a  mulberry-tree  in  an  apple 
orchard?" 

"For  the  robins,  my  son.  Haven't  you  heard  that  luck 
follows  the  robins?" 

"What  is  luck,  father?" 

"Luck,  my  son,  is  any  good  thing  which  people  make  for 
themselves  and  the  folks  they. think  about." 

And  the  little  boy  sits  down  on  a  buttercup  cushion  and 
meditates  on  luck,  while  he  watches  the  robins  knocking  at 
the  doors  of  the  soft-bodied  larvae,  engaged  in  making  luck  for 
other  folks.  And  the  boy's  own  luck  takes  the  right  turn  all 
on  account  of  his  father  setting  out  a  mulberry-tree. 

Whole  school-rooms  full  of  children  are  known  to  be  after 
the  same  sort  of  luck  when  they  plant  a  tree  on  Arbor  Day; 
a  cherry-tree  or  mulberry-tree,  or  even  an  apple,  in  due  time  is 
sure  to  bring  forth  just  the  crotch  to  delight  the  heart  of 
mother  robin  in  June.  Not  that  the  robins  do  not  select 
other  places  than  apple-trees  to  nest  in.  An  unusual  place 
is  quite  as  likely  to  charm  them.  Let  a  person  interest  him- 
self a  little  in  the  robin's  affairs  and  he  will  see  startling 
results  by  the  summer  solstice.  An  old  hat  in  the  crotch  of 
a  tree,  an  inverted  sunshade,  or  even  a  discarded  scarecrow, 
terrible  to  behold,  left  over  from  last  year  and  hidden  in  the 
foliage,  one  and  all  suggest  possibilities  to  the  robins. 


Our  Comrade  the  Robin  27 

Mud  that  is  fresh  and  sweet  is  essential  to  a  robin's  nest. 
Stale,  bad-smelling,  sour  mud  isn't  fit  for  use.  Sweet,  clay- 
like  stuff  is  what  they  want.  A  pack  of  twigs  made  up  loosely, 
soft  grass  and  fiber,  all  delight  the  nest-builders,  who  are  as 
sure  to  select  a  location  near  by,  as  they  are  sure  to  stay  all 
summer  near  the  farmer  on  account  of  the  nearness  of  food. 

Anywhere  from  four  to  thirty  feet  one  may  find  the  nests 
with  little  trouble,  they  are  so  bulky,  all  but  the  delicate 
inside  of  them,  which  is  soft  as  down ;  nest-lining  being  next 
thing  to  nest-peopling — the  toes  of  the  little  new  people  find- 
ing their  first  means  of  clinging  to  life  by  what  is  next  to 
them.  A  well-woven  lining  gives  young  robins  a  delicious 
sense  of  safety,  as  they  hold  on  tight — the  instinct  to  hold  on 
tight  being  about  the  first  in  any  young  thing,  be  it  bird  or 
human  baby,  except,  perhaps,  the  instinct  of  holding  its 
mouth  open. 

Some  people  who  do  not  watch  closely  suppose  the 
young  robin  who  holds  its  mouth  open  the  longest  and  widest 
gets  the  most  food.  We  are  often  mistaken  in  things.  Mother 
robin  understands  the  care  of  the  young,  though  she  never 
read  a  book  about  it  in  all  her  life.  Think  of  her  infant,  of 
exactly  eleven  days,  leaving  the  nest  and  getting  about  on  its 
own  legs,  as  indeed  it  does,  more  to  the  astonishment  of  its 
own  little  self  than  anybody  else.  And  before  the  baby 
knows  it,  he  is  singing  with  all  the  rest, 

"Cheer  up; 
Cheerily,  cheerily, 
Cheer  up." 

The  very  same  song  we  heard  him  sing  within  the  Arctic 
circle,  far  up  to  the  snow  line  of  the  Jade  Mountains,  alter- 
nating his  song  with  the  eating  of  juniper  berries. 


28  Birds  of  Song  and  Story 

But  one  might  go  on  forever  with  the  robin  as  he  hops 
and  skips  and  flies  from  the  Atlantic  to  the  Pacific,  and  from 
Alaska  to  Mexico  and  other  parts;  but  one  would  never  get 
to  the  end  of  loving  him. 

When  poor  robin  at  last  meets  with  disaster  and  cannot 
pick  himself  up  again,  in  short,  is  "gone  to  that  world  where 
birds  are  blest,"  the  leaves  shall  remember  to  cover  him, 
while  we  imagine,  with  the  poet  who  thought  it  not  time  and 
talent  wasted  to  write  an  epitaph  to  the  redbreast, 

"Small  notes  wake  from  underground 
Where  now  his  tiny  bones  are  laid. 
No  prowling  cat  with  whiskered  face 
Approaches  this  sequestered  place; 
No  school-boy  with  his  willow  bow 
Shall  aim  at  thee  a  treacherous  blow." 

But  the  funeral  of  even  a  robin  is  a  sad  event ;  so  we  will 
bring  him  back  in  the  spring,  for 

"There's  a  call  upon  the  housetop,  an  answer  from  the  plain, 
There's  a  warble  in  the  sunshine,  a  twitter  in  the  rain." 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  MOCKING-BIRD 

Wit,  sophist,  songster,  Yorick  of  thy  tribe, 

Thou  sportive  satirist  of  nature's  school; 
To  thee  the  palm  of  scoffing  we  ascribe, 

Arch-mocker,  and  Mad  Abbot  of  Misrule. 
For  such  thou  art  by  day;  but  all  night  long 

Thou  pour'st  soft,  sweet,  pensive,  solemn  strain, 
As  if  thou  didst  in  this  thy  moonlight  song 

Like  to  the  melancholy  Jaques  complain, 
Musing  on  falsehood,  folly,  vice,  and  wrong, 

And  sighing  for  toy  motley  coat  again. 

WILDE. 

In  his  native  town,  or  district,  the  mocker  stands  at  the 
head  of  the  class  as  a  song-bird.  He  is  not  distinguished  for 
his  gorgeous  plumage,  like  a  parrot,  nor  yet  for  the  mischief 
he  does,  like  the  crow.  His  virtue  is  all  in  his  throat.  And 
yet  he  can  scarcely  be  honored  as  an  original  genius.  Were 
he  original  he  would  be  no  mocker.  But  he  has  an  original 
way  with  him  for  all  that,  when  he  takes  a  notion  to  mimic 
any  person.  Were  he  a  man  as  gifted,  we  should  have  no 
trouble  in  seeing  ourselves  "as  ithers  see  us";  or  better,  in 
hearing  ourselves  "as  ithers  hear  us."  He  is  the  preacher, 
the  choir  leader,  the  choir  itself,  the  organ.  He  gives  out 
the  hymns,  chants  the  "Amen,"  and  pronounces  the  benedic- 
tion in  the  garden  church.  Few  verses  have  been  inscribed 
to  the  mocking-bird,  for  the  reason,  it  is  supposed,  that  senti- 
ment intended  for  any  known  singer  fits  the  mocker,  though 
it  must  be  conceded  that  he  is  humorist  more  than  poet.  It 

29 


30  Birds  of  Song  and  Story 

is  impossible  to  listen  to  his  varied  songs  and  keep  from  laugh- 
ing, especially  if  the  mood  be  on  one.  Where  the  weather 
is  very  mild  he  sings  all  winter,  and  nearly  all  the  year.  His 
fall  molt  takes  but  a  few  weeks,  and  then  "  Richard  is  himself 
again." 

His  humor  does  not  desert  htm  even  at  the  trying  season 
of  molting  his  coat,  for  he  is  seen  to  stand  on  a  bough  and 
preen  himself  of  his  old  tatters,  catching  a  falling  feather  in 
his  beak,  and  turning  it  about  in  a  ludicrous  way,  as  if  laugh- 
ing to  himself  at  this  annual  joke  of  his.  Dropping  the  rem- 
nant of  his  summer  plumage,  he  cants  his  wise  little  head  and 
gives  a  shrill  cry  of  applause  as  it  floats  away. 

Whatever  may  be  said  of  his  musical  powers,  the  mocker 
exceeds  his  fellows  in  the  art  of  listening.  We  have  known 
him  to  sit  the  better  part  of  an  afternoon,  concealed  in  thick 
foliage,  listening  with  all  his  might  to  the  various  songs  about 
him,  with  full  intention  of  repeating  them  at  midnight.  And 
repeat  them  he  does,  not  forgetting  the  postman's  whistle, 
nor  the  young  turkeys  just  learning  to  run  (in  the  wet  grass) 
to  an  untimely  grave. 

He  has  an  agreeable  way  of  improving  upon  the  original 
of  any  song  he  imitates,  so  that  he  is  supposed  to  give  free 
music  lessons  to  all  the  other  birds.  His  own  notes,  belong- 
ing solely  to  himself,  are  beautiful  and  varied,  and  he  sand- 
wiches them  in  between  the  rest  in  a  way  to  suit  the  best. 

We  imagine  that  he  forgets,  from  year  to  year,  and  must 
have  his  memory  stirred  occasionally.  This  is  particularly  so 
in  his  imitation  of  the  notes  of  young  birds.  We  never  hear 
them  early  in  spring  or  very  late  in  autumn  after  he  has  com- 
pleted his  silent  molt.  In  late  summer,  however,  when  the 
baby  birds  have  grown  into  juveniles,  then  "old  man  mocker" 


The  Mocking-Bird  31 

takes  up  his  business  of  mimicking  the  voices  of  the  late 
nursery. 

Until  we  knew  his  methods  we  would  start  at  peculiar 
sounds  in  the  garden  and  cry  to  one  another,  "There's  a  late 
brood  of  young  ones!"  and  run  to  locate  the  tardy  family. 

From  his  perch  on  the  chimney  the  mocker  laughs  at  us, 
while  he  squeals,  like  his  own  little  son  of  a  month  old,  or 
coaxes,  like  a  whole  nestful  of  baby  linnets. 

No  matter  who  is  the  victim  of  his  mimicry,  he  loves  the 
corner  of  a  chimney  better  than  any  other  perch,  and  carols 
out  into  the  sky  and  down  into  the  "black  abyss"  as  if  chim- 
neys were  made  on  purpose  for  mocking-birds. 

A  neighbor  of  ours  has  a  graphophone  which  is  used  on 
the  lawn  for  the  entertainment  of  summer  guests.  Think  you 
that  big  brass  trumpet-throat  emits  its  uncanny  sounds  for 
human  ears  alone?  Behind  it,  or  above  it,  or  in  front  of  it, 
listening  and  taking  notes,  is  the  mocker.  Suddenly,  next 
day  or  next  week,  we  hear,  perhaps  at  midnight,  a  concert  up 
in  the  trees — song-sparrows,  and  linnets,  and  blackbirds,  and 
young  chickens,  and  shrikes,  and  pewees,  and  a  host  of  other 
musicians,  clear  and  unmistakable.  Then  as  suddenly  the 
whole  is  repeated  through  a  graphophone,  and  we  listen  and 
laugh,  for  well  we  know  that  the  only  source  of  it  all  is  our 
dear  mocker.  How  he  gets  the  graphophone  ring  we  do  not 
know  any  more  than  we  know  how  he  comes  by  all  his  powers 
of  reproduction.  Of  practice  he  has  a  plenty,  and  his  in- 
dustry in  this  respect  may  be  the  key  to  his  success. 

The  male  differs  so  slightly  from  his  mate  that  the  two  are 
indistinguishable  save  at  song-time.  They  pair  in  early  spring, 
and  are  faithfully  united  in  all  their  duties.  They  nest  mostly 
in  bushes  or  low  branches  from  four  to  twenty  feet  from  the 


32  Birds  of  Song  and  Story 

ground.  The  nests  are  large  and  often  in  plain  sight.  Like 
the  robin  and  other  thrushes,  the  mocker's  first  thought  is 
for  the  foundation.  This  is  made  of  large  sticks  and  grasses, 
interlaced  and  crossed  loosely.  Upon  these  the  nest  proper 
is  placed,  of  soft  materials  lined  with  horsehair  or  grasses. 

With  the  mockers,  as  with  other  birds,  there  is  not  a  fixed 
rule  as  to  nesting  materials.  Outside  of  a  few  fundamental 
principles  as  to  foundations,  etc.,  they  select  the  material  at 
hand.  Where  cotton  is  to  be  obtained  they  use  it,  and 
strings  in  place  of  grass.  Leaves  in  the  foundation  are  bulky 
and  little  trouble  to  gather. 

We  have  found  a  pair  of  mockers  very  sly  and  silent  just 
at  nesting-time.  Or  the  female  will  be  at  the  nest  work, 
while  her  mate  is  singing  at  a  distance  as  if  to  distract  us 
from  the  scene  of  action.  However,  in  our  grounds,  where 
we  have  taught  all  birds  extreme  confidence,  the  good  work 
progresses  in  plain  sight.  One  writer  has  declared  that  a 
pair  of  mockers  will  desert  a  nest  if  you  so  much  as  look  at 
it.  This  is  true  only  where  they  are  very  wild  and  unaccus- 
tomed to  human  friends. 

When  once  the  young  are  hatched  the  fun  begins.  Dur- 
ing the  day  the  male  ceases  to  sing,  and  devotes  himself  to 
giving  exact  information  as  to  where  the  nest  may  be  found. 
Of  course  this  information  is  unintentional.  He  flies  at  us  if 
we  step  out  in  sight,  screaming  with  all  his  might.  The 
nearer  we  approach  the  nest  the  louder  and  nearer  he  cries, 
until  he  actually  has  an  attack  of  hysterics  and  turns  somer- 
saults in  the  air  or  quivers  in  the  foliage.  If  it  be  possible  to 
reach  you  from  behind,  he  dives  at  your  shoulder  and  nips  at 
your  hair.  Always  from  behind,  never  facing  you.  His 
quiet  mate  flits  through  the  boughs  as  if  she  understands  her 


The  Mocking-Bird  33 

husband's  exaggerated  solicitude,  and  half  smiles  to  see  his 
performances. 

In  a  day  or  two  the  young  birds  are  able  to  speak  for 
themselves,  and  from  this  on  until  the  next  brood  of  their 
parents  is  hatched,  the  youngsters  keep  up  a  coaxing  squeal. 
Getting  out  of  the  nest  in  about  two  weeks,  they  fly  awk- 
wardly about,  easy  prey  to  cats  and  other  thieves.  From  a 
nest  of  four  or  five  eggs  a  pair  of  mockers  do  well  if  they  raise 
two  or  even  one.  Night  birds  find  them  easy  to  steal,  for 
they  sleep  on  the  ground  or  under  a  bush  at  first,  being  sev- 
eral days  in  learning  to  fly;  and  a  much  longer  time  in 
learning  to  eat  by  themselves.  This  year  three  sets  of  young 
mockers  were  raised  on  raspberries.  They  were  brought  to 
the  patch  as  soon  as  they  left  the  nest,  where  they  remained 
on  the  ground  along  the  drooping  canes.  The  old  birds 
kept  with  them,  putting  in  all  their  time  at  teaching  the  awk- 
ward things  the  art  of  helping  themselves.  The  parent  bird 
would  hop  up  a  foot  or  two,  seize  a  tip  end  of  a  twig  on 
which  was  the  usual  group  of  berries,  and  bring  it  down  to 
the  ground,  holding  it  there  and  bidding  the  young  ones 
"take  a  bite."  Not  a  bite  would  they  take,  squealing  with 
mouth  wide  open  and  waiting  for  the  old  bird  to  pick  the 
berry  and  place  it  in  the  capacious  throat,  the  yellow  margins 
of  the  base  of  the  beak  shining  in  the  sun  like  melted  butter. 
And  butter  these  birds  like,  as  well  as  the  robins,  for  they 
come  to  the  garden  table  and  eat  it  with  the  bread  and 
doughnuts  and  pie  like  hungry  tramps. 

Unlike  the  ashy  white  of  the  parent  breast,  the  juveniles 
have  a  dotted  vest  very  pretty  to  look  at,  which  disappears 
at  the  first  molt. 

The  natural  food  of  the  mocking-bird  is  fruit  and  meat. 


34  Birds  of  Song  and  Story 

They  catch  an  insect  on  the  wing  with  almost  the  cunning 
of  a  flycatcher,  and  listen  on  the  ground  like  a  robin,  for  the 
muffled  tread  of  a  bug  under  a  log  or  in  the  sward.  They 
are  not  the  tyrants  they  are  sometimes  accredited  with  being. 
The  mocker  does  not  fight  a  pitched  battle  with  other  birds 
as  often  as  opportunity  offers.  Like  many  another  voluble 
being,  his  bark  is  worse  than  his  bite.  Not  his  weapon,  but 
his  word,  is  law.  So  fraternal  are  the  mockers,  as  we  see 
them,  that  the  close  coming  of  them  near  the  house  in  spring 
insures  us  the  company  of  many  other  birds. 

It  is  hard  to  outwit  the  mockers.  They  love  fruit  of  any 
sort  as  well  as  they  love  insects.  They  dote  on  scarecrows, 
those  "guardian  angels"  of  domestic  birds,  and  have  been 
seen  to  kiss  their  cheeks  or  pick  out  their  eyes. 

We  caused  one  of  these  terrors  to  stand  in  the  Christmas 
persimmon-tree  in  the  garden,  thinking  that,  for  fright  of 
him,  the  mockers  would  stand  aloof.  It  rained,  and  the  first 
bird  that  came  along  snuggled  under  his  chin  with  the  hat- 
brim  for  an  umbrella.  That  was  a  linnet.  Along  came  a 
mocker  and  took  refuge  under  the  other  ear  of  the  angel. 
We  tied  paper  bags  around  the  fruit,  but  the  mockers  bit 
holes  in  the  bags  and  took  the  persimmons.  We  pinned  a 
sheet  over  the  whole  treetop,  but  peep-holes  were  sufficient. 
In  went  the  mockers  like  mice  and  held  carousals  under 
cover. 

Tamed  when  young,  and  given  the  freedom  of  the  whole 
house,  a  mocking-bird  feels  fairly  at  home  and  is  good  com- 
pany, especially  if  there  be  an  invalid  in  the  family.  The 
bigger  the  house  the  more  fun,  for  the  limits  of  the  cage  in 
which  birds  are  usually  confined  form  the  greatest  objection 
to  keeping  them  in  captivity.  Few  cages  admit  of  sufficient 


The  Mocking-Bird  35 

room  for  the  stretch  of  wing  in  flight,  or  even  for  a  respectable 
hop. 

We  know  of  no  bird  save  a  parrot  which  chooses  to  be 
caressed.  Birds  are  not  guinea-pigs,  to  be  scratched  into  good 
terms.  It  spoils  the  plumage  and  disagrees  with  the  temper. 
A  mocker  on  the  ground  never  trails  his  coat-skirt.  He  lifts 
his  tail  gracefully,  as  if  he  knows  that  contact  with  the  grass 
will  disarrange  his  feathers. 

In  "Evangeline, "  Longfellow  immortalized  the  mocking- 
bird thus: 

"Then  from  a  neighboring  thicket,  the  mocking-bird,  wildest  of  singers, 
Swinging  aloft  on  a  willow  spray  that  hung  o'er  the  waters, 
Shook  from  his  little  throat  such  floods  of  delirious  music 
That  the  whole  air  and  the  woods  and  the  waves  seemed  silent  to  listen. 
Plaintive  at  first  were  the  tones,  and  sad;  then  soaring  to  madness, 
Till  having  gathered  them  all,  he  flung  them  abroad  in  derision, 
As  when,  after  a  storm,  a  gust  of  wind  through  the  treetops 
Shakes  down  a  rattling  of  rain  in  a  crystal  shower  on  the  branches." 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  CAT-BIRD 

Why,  so  I  will,  you  noisy  bird, 
This  very  day  I'll  advertise  you; 
Perhaps  some  busy  ones  may  prize  you. 

He  is  not  always  the  cat-bird,  O  no!  He  is  one  of  our 
sweetest  singers  before  day  has  fairly  opened  her  eyes.  Be- 
fore it  is  light  enough  to  be  sure  that  what  one  sees  be  a  bird 
or  a  shadow,  the  cat-bird  is  in  the  bushes. 

Singing  as  he  flits,  this  early  riser  and  early  eater  passes  from 
bush  to  bush  on  the  fringed  edge  of  morning,  conscious  of  hap- 
piness and  hunger.  With  a  quaint  talent  for  mimicry  he  tries 
to  reproduce  the  notes  of  other  birds,  with  partial  success; 
giving  only  short  snatches,  however,  as  if  afraid  to  trust  himself. 

In  the  hush  of  evening  when  the  cricket's  chirp  has  a 
drowsy  tone,  the  cat-bird  makes  his  melody,  each  individual 
with  cadences  of  his  own.  Now  like  a  thrush  and  now  like 
a  nightingale,  he  sings,  though  he  is  not  to  be  compared  with 
the  mocking-bird  in  powers  of  mimicry.  Yet  his  own  per- 
sonal notes  are  as  sweet  as  the  mocker's. 

But,  like  most  persons,  he  has  "another  side,"  on  which 
account  he  came  by  his  name.  And  his  mate  is  Mrs.  Cat- 
bird as  well,  for  she,  too,  imitates  the  feline  foe  of  all  birds, 
more  especially  at  nesting-time. 

There  is  a  legend  to  fit  the  case,  as  usual.  This  bird  was 
once  a  great  gray  cat,  and  got  its  living  by  devouring  the 
young  of  such  birds  as  nest  in  low  bushes. 


,nMi 


OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY 

or 


The  Cat-Bird  37 

All  the  birds  met  in  convention  to  pray  the  gods  they 
might  be  rid  of  this  particular  cat. 

As  no  created  thing  may  be  absolutely  deprived  of  life, 
but  only  transformed  into  some  other  being,  this  cat  was 
changed  into  a  bird,  henceforth  doomed  to  mew  and  scream 
like  a  kitten  in  trouble. 

Its  note  long  since  ceased  to  have  much  effect  upon  the 
birds,  who  seldom  mistake  its  cry  for  that  of  their  real  enemy 
in  fur  and  claws. 

Not  so  its  human  friends,  for  it  takes  a  fine  ear  indeed  to 
distinguish  the  bird  from  a  cat  when  neither  is  in  sight. 

Now  this  bird,  doomed,  as  the  superstition  runs,  to  prowl 
and  lurk  about  in  dark  places  near  the  ground,  seldom  flies 
high,  nor  does  it  often  nest  in  trees.  This  does  not  prevent 
the  singer  from  exercising  his  musical  talents,  however,  more 
than  it  does  the  meadow-lark  or  the  song-sparrow. 

It  is  in  midsummer  that  the  cat-bird  is  best  known  as  the 
bird  that  "mews."  Then  both  birds,  if  one  approaches  the 
nest,  fly  at  the  intruder,  wings  drooping,  tail  spread,  beak 
open,  whole  attitude  one  of  scolding  anger. 

In  this  mood  the  bird  fears  nothing,  even  making  up  to  a 
stranger,  and  pecking  at  him.  If  it  would  pass  with  the 
waning  summer  and  the  maturing  of  the  young  birds,  this 
bad  temper  of  the  cat-bird  would  be  more  tolerable;  but  once 
acquired,  the  habit  clings  to  it,  and  it  may  be  that  not  till 
next  winter  will  it  get  over  the  fit. 

The  favorite  site  of  the  cat-bird  for  nesting,  as  we 
have  observed  it,  is  the  middle  of  a  patch  of  blackberry 
bushes,  so  dense  and  untrimmed  it  would  be  impossible 
for  any  one  save  a  bird  to  reach  it.  Even  the  parent  birds 
must  creep  on  "all  twos"  or  dodge  along  beneath  the 


38  Birds  of  Song  and  Story 

briers.  We  have  known  it  to  build  in  a  thick  vine  over  the 
door. 

The  cat-bird  and  brown  thrasher  were  always  together  in 
our  Tennessee  garden ;  each  fearless,  nesting  near  the  door, 
eating  the  same  food,  but  differing  in  personal  habits.  The 
cat-bird's  nest  was  in  the  blackberries,  the  thrasher's  in  the 
honeysuckle.  We  often  borrowed  the  young  thrashers  for 
exhibition  to  our  friends  in  the  parlor.  After  the  first  time  or 
two  the  parents  did  not  care,  but  watched  quietly  from  the 
vine  for  the  return  of  their  darlings. 

The  cat-bird  neighbor,  always  prying  about,  took  note  of 
our  custom  and  played  "spy"  in  the  honeysuckle.  At  the 
first  opening  of  the  door  out  peeped  a  black  beak,  from  which 
proceeded  the  familiar  cat-cry  we  had  learned  to  not  heed. 
Paying  no  attention  to  this  self-appointed  guardian  of  the 
little  thrashers,  we  took  them  into  the  parlor,  where  they 
would  remain  for  half  an  hour. 

All  this  time  the  cat-bird  kept  up  its  mewing  and  scream- 
ing at  the  door,  outside,  nor  did  it  cease  until  the  birds  were 
placed  back  in  the  nest. 

The  custom  of  the  cat-birds  everywhere  to  play  the  de- 
tective, and  sound  the  note  of  warning  in  behalf  of  all  the 
other  birds,  is  well  known.  Is  there  danger  anywhere,  they 
rush  to  the  rescue  with  imploring  cry,  setting  up  a  great  agony 
of  sound  and  posture,  very  ludicrous  if  not  pathetic. 

And  the  poor  cat-bird  is  always  at  swords'  points  with 
the  farmer.  Scarecrows  a  plenty  deck  the  orchards  and  orna- 
ment the  gardens.  More  do  these  historical  and  sometimes 
artistic  beings  serve  to  ease  the  farmer's  conscience  than  to 
intimidate  the  birds;  for  it  is  well  known  that  cat-birds  thrive 
best  under  the  grotesque  shadows  of  the  scarecrow*  And  the 


The  Cat-Bird  39 

more  horrible  of  face  and  figure  are  these  individuals  created, 
the  more  are  they  sought  after  by  the  very  birds  they  are 
intended  to  scare  out  of  their  wits. 

It  will  probably  take  another  generation  of  fruit-men  to 
wake  up  to  the  fact  that  these  and  other  birds  habitually  mis- 
take the  scarecrow  for  a  guide-board  to  "ways  and  means," 
or  a  sign  for  "home  cooking." 

Would  the  farmer  stop  when  he  has  finished  the  very 
worst  scarecrow  he  can  conjure  up  out  of  last  year's  trousers 
and  coat  and  hat  and  straw  from  the  bedding  mow,  the  birds 
would  have  fair  play.  But  the  shot-gun,  alas!  picks  off  the 
poor  little  mew  bird  almost  as  fast  as  he  himself  picked  off 
the  berries  an  hour  before,  and  so  the  farmer  is  accused  of 
having  ' '  no  heart. ' ' 

But  the  farmer's  boy  of  the  bare  feet  and  brown  legs  loves 
the  funny  bird.  He  will  sit  for  an  hour  near  its  brier-bound 
nest,  chuckling  at  its  screams  and  gestures,  and  wondering 
"why  it  isn't  a  cat  for  good  and  all." 

Hast  thou  named  all  the  birds  without  a  gun? 
— O,  be  my  friend  and  teach  me  to  be  thine. 

EMERSON. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  HERMIT-THRUSH 

Thrush,  thrush,  have  mercy  on  thy  little  bill; 

I  play  to  please  myself,  albeit  ill; 

And  yet  —  though  how  it  comes  to  pass  I  cannot  tell  — 

My  singing  pleases  all  the  world  as  well. 

MONTGOMERY. 

Hermit  that  it  is,  this  little  thrush  is  known  and  loved  in 
nearly  all  of  North  America.  True,  there  are  several  of  its 
relatives  about  in  fields  and  woods,  which  are  taken  for  the 
hermit  by  those  who  have  not  compared  the  different  birds; 
the  plain,  deep  olive-brown  above,  with  dotted  creamy  vest, 
being  a  popular  dress  with  the  thrushes. 

The  hermit  answers  to  several  names,  suiting  the  location 
in  which  it  is  found.  In  low  parts  of  the  South  it  is  known 
as  the  swamp-robin.  You  meet  it  in  the  damp,  shady  places 
where  it  is  always  twilight,  in  the  fascinating  grounds  of  the 
snails  and  water-beetles. 

It  likes  such  clammy,  silent  neighbors,  with  their  retiring 
habits  and  proper  manners,  for  the  reason  that  it  is  able  to 
turn  them  to  some  account  at  meal-time,  which,  as  is  the  case 
with  most  birds,  is  all  the  time,  or  any  time.  (It  is  said  to 
resemble  in  habits  and  notes  the  English  song-thrush,  which 
is  known  to  spend  most  of  its  time  at  certain  periods  of  the 
year  hunting  snails,  which  it  has  learned  to  dress  for  eating 
by  slapping  them  against  a  stone.  It  will  choose  a  stone  of 
the  proper  shape,  to  which  it  carries  its  snails  as  often  as  it 

40 


' 


The  Hermit-Thrush  41 

has  good  luck  in  the  hunt,  leaving  little  heaps  of  shell  by  the 
stone  to  mark  its  picnic-ground.) 

Family  affairs  bring  little  labor  to  a  pair  of  hermits,  for 
they  have  not  far  to  go  in  search  of  nesting  materials.  They 
take  what  is  close  at  hand,  little  dry  twigs,  lichens,  and  last 
year's  leaves  crumbled  and  moist,  which  soon  lose  their 
dampness  and  adhere  together  in  a  thick  mass. 

But  few  have  found  it,  this  nest  of  the  hermit,  hidden 
under  the  bushes  where  it  is  always  shadowed,  and  where  the 
fledglings  may  help  themselves  to  rambling  insects  without  so 
much  as  stepping  out  of  the  door.  They  are  supposed  to 
take  advantage  of  this  nearness  to  food  by  remaining  about 
the  nest  later  than  most  birds;  or  if  they  run,  returning  on 
foot  of  course,  having  tardy  use  of  their  wings,  but  learning 
to  stretch  their  legs  instead.  And  well  may  they  learn  to 
" stretch  their  legs,"  as  they  will  come  to  their  fortunes  by 
"footing  it"  mostly,  when  they  are  not  migrating  on  the  wing. 

Like  the  thrashers,  the  hermit  must  scratch  for  a  living 
when  berries  are  not  ripe.  By  listening  one  may  hear  the 
bird  at  its  work,  and  by  slipping  quietly  in  the  dusk  of  the 
early  morning  to  the  lowlands,  or  the  thick  woods,  and  stand- 
ing stock-still  for  a  while,  even  see  it.  But  nearly  always 
it  is  under  cover  on  the  edge  of  thickets,  where  the  leaf- 
mold  is  unstirred  and  richest.  And  always  by  its  own  self  is 
the  hermit,  as  if  it  loves  nature  better  than  the  company  of 
its  fellows,  listening  now  and  then  for  underground  or  over- 
head sounds,  and  dwelling  on  the  beauty  of  the  leaf  skeletons 
it  overturns  like  a  botanist. 

Lace-work  and  dainty  insertion  in  delicate  threads  does 
Madam  Hermit  find  in  her  resorts — fabric  so  marvelous  and 
fascinating  she  could  admire  it  forever;  cast-off  finery  of  such 


42  Birds  of  Song  and  Story 

insects  as  outgrow  their  clothes,  grasshopper  nymphs,  and 
whole  baskets  full  of  locusts'  eggs  hidden  in  half-decayed 
logs,  and  making  a  nourishing  breakfast,  "rare  done"  and 
delicious.  She  delights  in  the  haunts  of  the  praying-mantis 
at  egg-laying  season,  surprising  the  wonderful  insect  in  her 
devotions,  who  scarcely  has  time  to  turn  her  head  on  her  foe 
before  she  disappears  from  sight. 

It  is  well  for  her  thus  to  disappear  suddenly,  for  she  is 
spared  witnessing  the  fate  of  her  newly  laid  eggs  just  above 
her  on  the  twig,  their  silken  wrapper  being  no  obstruction  in 
the  way  of  Madam  Hermit  finishing  her  meal  on  them. 

These  habits  of  the  hermit-thrush  mark  the  dwarf-hermit 
in  southern  California.  We  see  it  in  the  orange-groves  after 
irrigation  or  during  a  wet  winter.  Plenty  of  mulching  in  the 
orchards  invites  the  dwarf  (where  it  is  a  hermit  like  its  rela- 
tive), and  we  find  it  scratching  away  in  the  litter,  overturning 
frail  little  toadstool  huts  and  umbrellas,  and  exchanging 
greetings  with  its  neighbor,  the  varied  thrush,  under  the  next 
tree. 

Here  in  the  caftons,  where  the  brooks  turn  right  side  up 
for  one  brief  season  in  the  long,  dry  year,  we  see  the  little 
olive-brown  bird  with  its  speckled  breast.  Its  sight  and  hear- 
ing are  keen,  so  that  it  detects  the  whereabouts  of  the  stone- 
flies,  lingering  among  the  moist  rocks  until  they  come  out  for 
a  drink  or  a  bath,  when — that  is  the  last  of  them. 

The  dwarf  brown  beauty,  which,  of  course,  must  have 
victuals  by  hook  or  crook,  never  breaking  a  single  law  in 
either  case,  loves  the  watery  haunts  of  the  dragon-flies. 

It  passes  by  the  pupa-skin  drying  on  its  leaf-stalk  just  as 
it  was  outgrown,  with  perchance  a  glance  at  the  reflection  in 
the  water;  but  the  cunning  bird  neglects  not  to  take  in  the. 


The  Hermit-Thrush  43 

pupa  itself,  making  its  own  breakfast  on, undeveloped  mosqui- 
toes in  the  water's  edge. 

All  winter  long  about  our  home  lives  the  dwarf  hermit, 
eating  crumbs  at  the  garden  table  and  looking  for  belated 
raspberries  on  the  ever-green  canes.  Early,  before  the  sun  is 
up,  the  bird  runs  along  under  our  windows,  where  the  myrtle 
covers  the  tracks  of  night  insects,  and  rings  its  tinkling  notes. 
These  resemble  the  familiar  bell-notes  that  belong  to  the  wood- 
thrush,  cousin  of  the  hermit  and  the  dwarf  hermit. 

Not  so  numerous  as  its  relatives,  the  wood-thrush  is  seen 
only  in  Eastern  North  America.  It  nests  in  trees  or  bushes, 
packing  wet,  decaying  leaves  and  wood  fiber  into  a  paste, 
which  dries  and  resembles  the  mud  nest  of  the  robin.  It, 
too,  gets  its  food  in  the  litter  of  leaves  and  wet  places, 
choosing  fens  and  cranberry  bogs  in  the  pastures.  All  the 
thrushes  delight  in  berries,  and  any  berry-patch,  wild  or  cul- 
tivated, is  the  bird's  own  patch  of  ground. 

The  sadder  the  day  the  sweeter  the  song  of  the  wood- 
thrush.  Nature-lovers  who  stroll  into  the  thickest  of  the 
woods  of  a  cloudy  day  on  purpose  to  make  the  acquaintance 
of  the  thrush  will  find 

"  The  heart  unlocks  its  springs 
Wheresoe'er  he  singeth." 

The  notes  of  all  the  thrushes  are  singularly  sweet,  and  may 
be  recognized  by  their  low,  tinkling,  bell-like  tones. 

At  the  funeral  of  Cock  Robin,  who  did  not  survive  his 
wedding-day  in  the  legend,  it  was  the  thrush  who  sang  a 
psalm,  and  he  was  well  qualified,  "as  he  sat  in  a  bush," 
if  such  a  thing  were  possible,  no  doubt  bringing  tears  to  his 
feathered  audience. 

The  "throstle  with  his  note  so  true"  in  the  garden  of 


44  Birds  of  Song  and  Story 

Bottom,  the  fairy  in  "Midsummer  Night's  Dream,"  was  the 
thrush  of  Shakespeare's  own  country.  No  fairy's  garden  is 
complete  without  this  sweet  singer  described  so  truly  by 
Emily  Tolman. 

"  In  the  deep,  solemn  wood,  at  dawn  I  hear 
A  voice  serene  and  pure,  now  far,  now  near, 

Singing  sweetly,  singing  slowly, 

Holy;  oh,  holy,  holy; 

Again  at  evening  hush,  now  near,  now  far — 
Oh,  tell  me,  art  thou  voice  of  bird  or  star? 

Sounding  sweetly,  sounding  slowly, 

Holy;  oh,  holy,  holy." 


CHAPTER  V 

THE    GROSBEAKS 

Have  you  ever  heard  of  the  sing-away  bird, 

That  sings  where  the  run-away  river 
Runs  down  with  its  rills  from  the  bald-headed  hills 

That  stand  in  the  sunshine  and  shiver? 
Oh,  sing,  sing  away,  sing  away! 
How  the  pines  and  the  birches  are  stirred 
By  the  trill  of  the  sing-away  bird! 

And  beneath  the  glad  sun,  every  glad-hearted  one 

Sets  the  world  to  the  tune  of  its  gladness; 
The  swift  rivers  sing  it,  the  wild  breezes  wing  it, 
Till  earth  loses  thought  of  her  sadness. 
Oh,  sing,  sing  away,  sing  away! 
Oh,  sing,  happy  soul,  to  joy's  giver — 
Sing  on,  by  Time's  run-away  river! 

LUCY  LARCOM. 

You  would  recognize  it  anywhere  by  its  beak.  And  you 
may  call  this  feature  of  the  face  a  beak,  or  a  nose,  or  a  hand, 
or  a  pair  of  lips.  In  either  case  it  is  thick,  heavy,  prominent, 
the  common  characteristic  of  the  grosbeaks.  Individuals  may 
differ  in  plumage,  but  always  there  is  the  thick,  conical  bill. 

' '  Oh,  oh,  what  a  big  nose  you ' ve  got !' '  and  ' '  Oh,  oh,  what 
a  red  nose  it  is!"  we  exclaimed,  when  we  first  met  the  cardinal 
face  to  face  in  a  thicket.  In  a  moment  we  had  forgotten  the 
shape  and  tint  of  the  beak  in  the  song  that  poured  out  of  it. 
It  was  like  forgetting  the  look  of  the  big  rocks  between  which 
gushes  the  waterfall  in  a  mountain  gorge. 

Not  that  the  mouth  of  the  grosbeak  was  built  to  accom- 

45 


46  Birds  of  Song  and  Story 

modate  its  song,  but,  that  being  formed  for  other  purposes,  it 
nevertheless  is  a  splendid  flute. 

Whichever  he  may  be,  the  cardinal  or  the  black  headed,  or 
the  blue  or  the  rose  breasted,  the  grosbeak  is  a  splendid 
singer. 

On  account  of  its  gorgeous  coloring,  the  cardinal  is  oftenest 
caged.  But  to  those  who  love  the  wild  birds  best  in  their 
native  freedom,  the  cardinal  grosbeak  imprisoned  lacks  the 
charm  of  manner  which  marks  it  in  the  tangle  of  wild  grape- 
vines and  blackberry  thickets.  Seldom  still  in  the  wild,  unless 
it  be  singing,  the  red  beauty  flits  and  dodges  between  twigs, 
and  dips  into  brush  and  careens  through  the  thickest  under- 
growth of  things  that  combine  to  hide  it,  now  here,  now  there, 
and  everywhere.  One  would  think  its  bright  coat  a  certain 
and  quick  token  of  its  whereabouts,  but  so  active  is  the  lively 
fellow  that  it  eludes  even  the  sharpest  eye,  a  stranger  mis- 
taking its  gleam  for  a  rift  of  sunlight  through  the  treetops. 

Legend  tells  us  that  the  beak  of  this  bird  was  once  ashen 
gray  and  the  face  white.  Once  on  a  time,  a  whole  flock  of 
them  were  discovered  in  the  currant  rows  of  a  mountaineer, 
who  called  on  the  gods  of  the  woods  to  punish  them,  since  he 
himself  was  unable  to  overtake  the  thieves.  The  gods,  willing 
to  appease  the  old  man,  yet  loving  the  grosbeaks  better,  dyed 
their  beaks  crimson  from  that  moment,  and  set  black  masks 
on  their  faces.  Thus  was  a  favor  done  to  the  cardinals,  for 
ever  after  the  juice  of  berries  left  no  stain  on  their  red  lips, 
while  the  black  masks  set  off  their  features  to  the  best  advan- 
tage, interrupting  the  tint  of  the  beak  and  the  head.  He  is 
no  ecclesiastic,  though  he  wear  the  red  cap  of  the  cardinal, 
which  he  lifts  at  pleasure,  for  he  gets  his  living  by  foraging 
the  woods  and  gardens  for  berries  at  berry-time. 


The  Grosbeaks  47 

The  cardinal's  companion  is  modest  of  tint,  ashy  brown 
with  only  traces  of  red  below,  deepening  on  wings,  head, 
and  tail.  Bird  of  the  bush  is  she,  and  she  places  her  loosely 
made  nest  in  the  thicket,  where  she  can  easily  obtain  bark 
fiber  and  dry,  soft  leaves  and  grass.  In  it  she  sees  that  three 
or  four  chocolate-dotted  eggs,  like  decorated  marbles,  are 
placed.  And  she  repeats  the  family  history  two  or  three 
times  a  season,  where  the  season  is  long.  At  first  the  lips  of 
the  baby  birds  are  dark;  but  they  soon  blush  into  the  family 
red.  In  plumage  they  resemble  the  mother  for  a  time,  but 
before  cold  weather  the  males  put  on  a  coat  of  red  with  the 
black  mask. 

In  the  respect  of  molting  the  cardinals  differ  from  their 
young  cousins,  the  rose-breasted,  the  latter  requiring  two  or 
three  years  to  complete  the  tints  of  adult  life. 

But  born  iat^  thickets  are  the  rose-breasts,  just  like  the 
cardinals,  the  nest  being  composed  of  the  selfsame  fibers  and 
woodland  grasses.  Strange  craft  of  Mother  Nature  is  this,  to 
bring  the  rose-breast  and  the  cardinal  from  eggs  of  the  very 
same  size  and  markings.  But  so  she  does;  so  that  a  stranger 
coming  upon  either  nest  in  the  absence  of  the  mother  bird 
might  mistake  it  for  that  of  the  other.  You  can't  be  certain 
until  you  see  the  old  birds. 

The  rose-breasted  grosbeaks  are  found  east  of  the  Rocky 
Mountains  and  north  into  Canada.  It  migrates  south  early, 
and  returns  to  its  summer  habitat  rather  late  in  spring.  The 
lips  of  the  rose-breast  are  white,  not  red,  while  the  feet  are 
grayish  blue,  differing  from  the  brown  feet  of  the  cardinal. 

How  did  it  come  by  its  breast?  Why,  legend  has  it  that 
the  breast  was  white  at  the  start.  One  day  he  forgot  him- 
self, not  knowing  it  was  night,  he  was  so  happy  singing  the 


48  Birds  of  Song  and  Story 

funeral  hymn  of  a  robin-redbreast  that  had  died  of  a  chill  in 
molting  time,  as  birds  do  die  when  the  process  is  belated. 
And  the  grosbeak  sang  on,  until  a  night-owl  spied  him  and 
thought  to  make  a  supper  of  a  bird  so  plump.  But  the  owl 
mistook  his  aim  and  flew  away  with  only  a  beakful  of  the 
breast  feathers,  he  not  taking  into  account  the  nearness  of  the 
molt.  The  grosbeak  escaped,  but  lacking  a  vest. 

The  robins  gathered  pink  wild-rose  leaves  and  laid  them 
on  the  heart  of  the  singer,  not  forgetting  to  line  the  wings, 
and  so  from  that  day  to  this  the  psalm  singer  is  known  as  the 
rose-breasted  grosbeak. 

The  head  and  neck  of  the  male  and  most  of  the  upper 
parts  are  black,  the  tail  white  and  black  combined,  wings 
black  variegated  with  white,  and  the  middle  breast  and  under 
wing-coverts  the  rich  rose  that  deepens  into  a  carmine.  The 
beak  is  white. 

The  mother  bird  is  streaked  with  blackish  and  olive  brown 
above,  below  white  tinged  with  dusky,  under  wing-coverts 
the  tint  of  saffron.  Her  beak  is  brown. 

These  beautiful  birds  may  be  seen  in  the  haunts  of  autumn 
berries,  early  spring  buds  that  are  yet  incased  in  winter  wrap- 
pings, and  orchards  in  the  remote  tops  of  whose  trees  have 
been  left  stray  apples.  By  the  time  these  are  frost-bitten  they 
are  "ready  cooked"  for  the  belated  rose-breasts,  whose  strong 
beaks  seem  made  on  purpose  to  bite  into  frozen  apples.  But 
frozen  apples  have  a  charm  of  taste  for  any  one  who  takes  the 
trouble  of  climbing  to  the  outer  limbs  for  a  tempting  recluse. 
Better  were  more  of  them  left  in  the  late  harvest  for  boys  and 
girls  and  the  rose-breasted  grosbeaks. 

An  invisible  thread  fastened  to  a  solitary  apple  on  a  high 
twig,  and  connected  inside  of  the  attic  window  of  a  cottage, 


The  Grosbeaks  49 

suggests  winter  fun  of  a  harmless  sort.  The  grosbeaks  fish 
for  the  apple,  which  all  of  a  sudden  is  given  a  jerk  from  a 
watchful  urchin  inside  the  window;  and  the  bird  realizes  the 
historical  "slip  'twixt  the  cup  and  the  lip."  The  string 
being,  to  start  with,  almost  invisible,  is  from  necessity  very 
weak  as  well,  and  breaks  at  about  the  third  jerk.  The  fun 
for  the  participants  inside  the  window  at  the  other  end  of  the 
string  is  over  for  a  time,  and  before  it  is  readjusted  the  apple 
has  several  bites  in  it.  And  besides,  there  are  other  apples. 

On  the  Pacific  coast  we  have  the  black-headed  grosbeak, 
cousin  of  the  others  and  equally  gifted  in  song. 

The  sides  of  the  head,  back,  wings,  and  tail  of  this  male 
are  black,  though  the  back  and  wings  are  dotted  with  white 
and  cinnamon-brown.  The  neck  and  under  parts  are  rich 
orange-brown,  changing  to  bright,  pure  yellow  on  the  belly  and 
under  wing-coverts.  The  bill  and  feet  are  dark  grayish  blue. 
The  female  and  her  young  differ  in  the  under  parts,  being  a 
rich  sulphur-yellow.  Upper  parts  are  olive  shaded,  varied 
with  whitish  or  brownish  stripes.  The  habits  of  the  black- 
headed  grosbeak  are  like  those  of  the  others  described. 

From  our  custom  of  making  the  grounds  as  attractive  to 
all  wild  birds  as  possible,  never  relenting  our  vigilance  in 
regard  to  the  feline  race,  we  have  had  splendid  opportunities 
of  studying  this  bird.  They  have  nested  with  us  for  three  years, 
beginning  in  wary  fashion  and  ending  in  perfect  confidence. 

The  first  of  the  season  we  saw  only  the  male,  and  he  kept 
high  in  the  blue-gum  trees,  fifty  or  sixty  feet  or  more  above 
ground,  singing  as  soon  as  everybody  was  out  of  sight,  but 
disappearing  if  a  door  opened.  We  thought  him  a  belated 
robin,  so  do  the  songs  of  the  two  birds  impress  a  stranger. 
For  weeks  we  could  catch  not  so  much  as  a  glimpse  of  the 


50  Birds  of  Song  and  Story 

singer,  though  we  hid  in  the  shrubbery.  Shrubbery  was  no 
barrier  to  the  sight  of  the  keen  little  eye  and  ear  above. 
Then  we  took  to  the  attic,  and  from  a  little  roof  corner-pane 
beheld  the  musician. 

But  his  song  was  short  and  ended  unfinished,  so  suspicious 
was  the  bird.  Gradually  he  came  to  understand  that  no  shot- 
gun disturbed  the  garden  stillness,  even  though  he  sat  on  an 
outer  bough,  and  no  cat  lurked  in  the  roses.  He  also  ap- 
peared to  notice  that  nobody  played  ball  on  the  greensward, 
nor  threw  stones  at  stray  chickens.  Altogether  circumstances 
seemed  favorable  to  Sir  Grosbeak,  and  he  brought  Madam 
along  down  from  the  mountain  caftons. 

By  midsummer  of  the  second  season  the  two  were  seen  at 
sunrise  as  low  as  the  tallest  of  the  orange-trees,  but  they  flew 
higher  or  disappeared  if  the  door  were  opened.  It  was  the 
year  that  we  first  planted  the  row  of  Logan  berries,  a  new 
cross  between  the  blackberry  and  raspberry.  It  was  between 
the  orange  and  lemon  trees,  in  a  quiet  corner  of  the  orchard, 
and  the  grosbeaks  espied  them,  reddening  a  month  before 
they  ripened.  By  getting  up  at,  dawn  we  made  sure  that 
nesting  operations  had  begun  within  twenty  feet  of  the  Logan 
berries.  But  which  way?  It  was  not  until  the  eggs  were 
laid  that  we  found  the  site  on  a  low  limb  of  a  fig-tree  adjoin- 
ing the  berry  row.  The  nest  was  made  solely  of  dry  dark- 
leaf  spines,  and  so  transparently  laid  that  we  could  distinguish 
the  three  eggs  from  below.  There  was  no  lining,  plenty  of 
ventilation  in  this  and  other  of  these  grosbeaks'  nests  observed 
in  the  foothills  being  the  rule.  Perhaps  the  climate  induces 
the  birds  to  this  sanitary  measure.  Certain  it  is  that  this  nest 
could  be  no  harbor  for  those  insect  foes  that  too  often  make 
life  miserable  for  the  birdlings. 


The  Grosbeaks  51 

The  summer  passed,  and  we  gave  up  the  row  of  berries  to 
the  grosbeaks.  There  were  but  few  anyway,  and  we  wanted 
the  birds.  And  there  was  other  fruit  they  were  welcome  to. 

This  season  the  grosbeaks  have  brought  off  three  broods 
within  fifty  feet  of  the  house.  The  male  sings  in  the  low 
bushes  and  trees,  and  does  not  think  of  punctuating  his  notes 
wkh  stops  and  pauses,  even  though  we  stand  within  a  few 
feet  of  him.  In  fact,  the  birds  are  now  as  tame  as  robins. 
Young  striped  fledglings  grope  about  in  the  clover,  or  flutter 
in  the  bushes  as  fearless  as  sparrows.  If  we  pick  them  up 
they  will  support  themselves  by  a  grip  on  the  hand  and  swing 
by  their  strong  great  beaks,  screaming  at  the  top  of  their 
shrill  voices  to  "let  go!"  when  it  is  themselves  that  are  hold- 
ing on  with  might  and  main.  If  they  scream  long  enough, 
and  their  beaks  do  not  weaken  in  their  clutch,  the  mocker 
comes  to  the  rescue  and  scolds  us,  while  we  explain  the 
situation,  extending  our  hands  with  the  grosbeak  clinging  to 
the  palm. 

So  far  as  we  have  known,  all  the  nests  in  our  grounds  have 
been  built  in  the  crotch  of  a  fig-tree.  The  fig  has  sparse 
foliage  and  affords  little  shelter.  But  then  there  are  figs  that 
ripen  most  of  the  summer — and  figs  are  good  for  baby  gros- 
beaks. Once  we  discovered  a  nest  by  accident.  The  bees  at 
swarming-time  settled  in  the  top  of  a  fig-tree,  a  place  not  at 
all  suitable,  in  our  opinion.  We  were  busily  engaged  in  toss- 
ing dust  into  the  tree  to  frighten  the  bees  out,  when  a  gros- 
beak appeared,  scolding  so  hard  in  her  familiar,  motherly  tone 
that  we  knew  we  were  "sanding"  her  nest  as  well  as  the  bees. 
And  we  found  it  all  right !  She  went  on  with  her  work  after 
we  had  attended  to  the  bees. 

On  account  of  the  fondness  of  the  birds  for  fruit  and  buds, 


52  Birds  of  Song  and  Story 

the  grosbeaks  might  easily  become  resident  in  any  home 
grounds.  Low  shrubbery  they  love  when  once  they  have 
become  familiar;  unlike  the  thrushes,  not  caring  particularly 
for  damp  places.  Dry,  baked-in-the-suh  nooks,  crisp  under- 
growth, and  especially  untrimmed  berry  rows  fascinate  them. 
During  mating-season  the  male  sings  all  the  time  when  he  is 
not  eating,  singing  as  he  flies  from  perch  to  perch,  and  like 
others  of  the  family,  has  been  accused  of  night  serenades. 
We  are  unable  to  know  certainly  if  it  is  our  grosbeak  or  the 
mocker  that  wakes  us  at  midnight.  It  is  probably  the  mocker, 
who  has  stolen  notes  from  all  the  birds. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE    ORIOLES 

A  rosy  flush  creeps  up  the  sky, 

The  birds  begin  their  symphony. 

I  hear  the  clear,  triumphant  voice 

Of  the  robin,  bidding  the  world  rejoice. 

The  vireos  catch  the  theme  of  the  song, 

And  the  Baltimore  oriole  bears  it  along, 

While  from  sparrow,  and  thrush,  and  wood-pewee, 

And  deep  in  the  pine-trees  the  chickadee, 

There's  an  undercurrent  of  harmony. 

HARRIET  E.  PAINE. 

It's  a  merry  song,  that  of  the  oriole.  It  belongs  to  the 
family,  and  once  heard  will  be  always  recognized.  Some- 
times it  is  a  happy  laugh ;  sometimes  a  chatter,  especially  at 
nesting-time,  when  a  pair  of  birds  are  selecting  a  place  for  the 
hammock.  Always,  wherever  heard,  the  song  of  an  oriole 
suggests  sunshine  and  a  letting-go  of  winter  and  sad  times. 

The  name  itself  is  characteristic  of  the  bird,  for  it  signifies 
yellow  glory.  And  a  yellow  glory  the  oriole  surely  is, 
whether  it  be  found  in  Europe  or  America,  and  whether  it  be 
called  hang-bird,  or  yellow  robin,  or  golden  robin,  or  fiery 
hang-bird.  The  term  " hang-bird"  suggests  the  fate  of  a 
convict,  but  the  oriole  is  no  convict.  His  transgressions 
against  any  law  are  few  and  far  between.  The  name  simply 
denotes  the  conditions  of  its  start  in  life.  The  "hanging"  of 
an  oriole  occurs  before  it  is  out  of  the  shell,  at  the  very  begin- 
ning of  its  career.  The  skill  of  the  orioles  in  the  art  of 
weaving  nests  is  unsurpassed  by  any  other  bird.  Always  it  is 

53 


54  Birds  of  Song  an*d  Story 

nest-weaving,  not  nest-building.  Not  a  stick  or  piece  of  bark 
do  they  use,  nor  a  bit  of  mud  or  paste. 

The  beak  of  the  orioles  differs  so  widely  from  that  of  the 
grosbeaks  that  one  has  but  to  compare  them  to  be  interested. 
One  might  almost  imagine  the  bill  of  a  grosbeak  to  be  a 
drinking-cup,  or  a  basket  with  an  adjustable  lid  or  cover  shut- 
ting slightly  over;  while  that  of  the  orioles  is  sharp  and 
pointed,  sometimes  deflected,  longer  than  the  head  of  the 
bird,  parting,  it  is  true,  but  the  upper  and  lower  mandibles 
meeting  so  exactly  together  at  the  tip  that  they  form  a 
veritable  needle  or  thorn.  And  a  needle  it  is,  on  the  point 
of  which  hangs  a  tale — the  tale  that  has  given  to  this  lovely 
being  the  nom  de  plume  of  " hang-bird." 

True,  the  orchard  oriole  fastens  its  nest  in  the  forks,  giving 
it  a  more  fixed  condition  than  is  the  case  with  the  strictly 
pensile  nests,  but  it,  too,  is  woven  with  artistic  designs,  the 
threads  interlacing  in  beautiful  patterns.  No  more  could  a 
grosbeak  weave  an  oriole's  nest,  with  its  big,  clumsy,  thick 
bill,  than  could  an  oriole  crack  pine  cones  to  pieces  with  its 
needle  beak.  Each  to  its  own  tools  when  it  comes  to  indi- 
vidual tricks.  And  there  are  the  feet  of  the  birds,  fitted  only 
for  perching,  not  for  walking !  The  nearest  we  ever  came  to 
catching  an  oriole  on  the  ground  was  when  we  compelled  a 
July  grasshopper  to  sit  in  a  bird-cage  under  a  tree.  The 
oriole  went  in  at  the  door  and  the  grasshopper  went  out  of 
the  door.  We  tried  it  again,  and  each  time  the  bird  and  the 
hopper  went  out  together,  the  oriole  assisting  its  friend,  for 
whom  it  has  a  special  fondness.  The  fondness  is  not  returned 
on  the  part  of  the  hopper. 

We  were  sorry  for  the  grasshopper,  and  wishing  to  con- 
tinue our  experiments,  secured  the  dry  skin  of  an  insect, 


BALTIMORE   ORIOLE 


or  THE    ' 
UNIVERSITY 

/-\  r- 


The  Orioles  55 

which  we  tied  to  the  perch  of  the  cage.  The  oriole  entered 
warily,  took  a  bite,  discovered  the  trick,  and  never  came  back. 

Perhaps  the  Baltimore  oriole  Is  best  known,  not  being  con- 
fined to  the  city  whose  name  it  bears.  It  came  by  its  name 
very  much  as  many  other  birds  came  by  their  names  and  will 
continue  to  come  by  them.  About  1628  Lord  Baltimore,  on 
an  important  visit  to  America,  heard  a  chatter  in  the  top  of 
a  maple,  and  looking  up  beheld  the  colors  of  his  own  livery, 
black  and  yellow.  The  colors  were  animated  and  flitted  from 
place  to  place,  at  last  seeming  to  laugh  at  the  Englishman 
who  had  come  so  far  from  home  to  find  his  coat  of  arms  out 
of  reach.  Baltimore  recognized  the  bird  as  an  aristocrat,  and 
bestowed  upon  it  his  own  name  on  the  spot.  And  a  lord 
the  oriole  is  to  this  day,  black  and  orange  in  color,  varying 
in  tint  with  age  and  season  of  the  year.  New  clothes, 
whether  on  birds  or  people,  fade  with  wear  and  sunshine, 
and  lose  the  luster  of  newness. 

Everybody  knows  the  oriole:  you  can't  make  a  mistake. 
That  is,  you  know  the  male ;  you  may  not  be  so  certain  of 
the  female  and  young,  for  these  are  always  duller  of  color, 
more  olive,  and  without  the  bright  black  of  the  male.  More- 
over, the  young  male  orioles  dress  very  much  like  their  sisters 
until  they  are  a  year  or  two  old,  when  they  dress  like  a  lord. 

A  neighbor  of  ours  was  sure  she  had  discovered  a  new 
species  hanging  their  nest  under  the  awning  of  a  window. 
Both  birds  were  dull  yellow,  exactly  similar  in  size  and  color. 
There  was  no  mistaking  the  oriole's  nest,  however;  and  when 
we  went  to  see  we  found  the  male  to  be  an  immature  only, 
mating,  as  is  their  custom,  the  second  year,  before  his  best 
clothes  arrived. 

The   Baltimore    oriole   attaches  its  nest  or  hammock  to 


56  Birds  of  Song  and  Story 

twigs  pretty  well  up  out  of  reach,  and  weaves  the  same  of 
grasses  and  string,  or  horsehairs,  or  all  combined.  Some  of 
the  strings  and  hairs  are  very  long,  and  are  passed  back  and 
forth  in  open-work  fabric,  crazy-quilt  fashion,  and  really  very 
beautiful.  The  cradles  swing  with  every  passing  breeze, 
suggesting  the  origin  of  the  Indian  lullaby  song,  "Rock-a- 
Bye  Baby,  in  the  Treetop."  The  eggs  are  four  or  five  in 
number,  bluish  white,  with  many  and  various  markings  in 
brown.  These  are  laid  on  a  soft  bed  of  wool  or  other  suitable 
material.  No  wind  can  blow  the  young  from  the  nest,  though 
sorry  accidents  do  sometimes  happen  to  them.  We  have 
found  them  caught  by  the  toes  in  the  meshes  of  the  nest, 
helplessly  suspended  on  the  outside,  thus  earning  the  name  of 
"hang-bird"  in  a  particular  case.  Not  so  very  different  from 
the  Baltimore  is  the  Bullock  oriole,  which  was  also  named 
for  an  English  gentleman  who  discovered  the  gay  fellow  up  in 
a  tree,  laughing  at  him.  There  is  less  black  on  the  head  and 
neck  of  the  Bullock  than  on  the  Baltimore,  but  the  two  rela- 
tives are  alike  in  habits  and  manners. 

The  hooded  oriole  differs  from  both  the  others  in  the  fact 
that  he  wears  a  hood  or  cowl  of  yellow,  falling  over  the  face 
like  a  mask.  Perhaps  the  bill  is  more  slender  and  decurved 
than  in  the  Bullock. 

The  orchard  oriole  differs  from  the  others  in  lacking  the 
bright  orange  or  yellow  with  the  black  of  his  dress.  His 
bright  chestnut  breast,  however,  with  the  pointed  bill  and 
familiar  manners,  distinguish  him  as  a  member  of  the  family. 
The  nest  is  more  compact  than  that  of  the  others,  woven 
sometimes  of  green  grasses,  which  mature  into  sweet-smelling 
hay,  retaining  the  green  tint,  which  helps  to  hide  its  exact 
location  in  the  foliage  where  it  is  placed. 


The  Orioles  57 

To  know  one  member  of  the  oriole  family  is  to  know  them 
all  in  a  sense,  and  to  know  them  is  to  love  them. 

Here  in  southern  California  we  are  best  acquainted  with 
the  Arizona  hooded,  which  comes  to  us  from  Mexico  as  early 
as  March  or  April  and  remains  until  autumn.  We  have  also 
the  Bullock,  and  have  watched  both  at  nesting-time.  None 
of  the  orioles  is  gregarious.  They  come  in  single  file,  never 
in  flocks,  and  go  the  same  way,  often  a  solitary  bachelor  or 
maid  lingering  behind.  When  they  come  in  spring  it  is  al- 
ways the  male  first,  two  or  three  days  ahead  of  his  mate. 
And  only  one  male  appears  first  on  the  grounds,  who  makes 
known  his  presence  exultantly,  as  if  declaring,  "I've  come, 
see  me!"  The  oranges  are  ripe  about  this  time,  and  the  coat 
of  the  gay  bird  is  quite  in  keeping  with  the  prevailing  color. 
One  associates  any  of  the  orioles,  save  the  orchard,  with 
oranges  and  buttercups  and  dandelions  and  summer  goldenrod. 

These  birds  love  the  habitation  of  man,  and  where  encour- 
aged and  tempted  by  fruits,  remain  about  our  homes  by  choice, 
returning  each  year  to  the  old  homestead.  We  have  had  ori- 
oles return  to  our  home  four  consecutive  seasons,  weaving  the 
new  nests  on  to  last  year's,  like  a  lean-to,  sewing  the  two 
together  with  threads.  Three  pairs  of  these  double-apartment 
nests  are  swinging  from  a  single  gum-tree  twenty-five  feet 
above  the  driveway. 

Often  a  pair  of  orioles  will  suspend  their  hammocks  under 
the  cloth  awnings  of  windows,  if  provision  is  made  for  them. 
A  strong  string  or  little  rope,  put  in  and  out  of  the  cloth, 
close  up  under  the  corner,  will  tempt  them.  We  have  not 
known  an  oriole  to  pierce  firm,  untransparent  texture  of  any 
sort,  with  her  needle  beak.  On  this  account  we  tempt  her 
with  the  ropes 


58  Birds  of  Song  and  Story 

If  corn  leaves  were  high  enough,  the  orioles  would  doubt- 
less take  them  for  nesting-places  in  their  season.  Not  so  very 
different  from  corn  is  our  banana  leaf,  only  a  good  deal 
broader  and  higher.  It  closes  in  the  middle  of  the  day  like  a 
corn  leaf,  opening  again  at  night  or  with  the  sunset. 

When  the  orioles  first  come  to  us  in  the  spring  they  ex- 
amine all  the  banana  leaves.  They  soon  make  up  their  minds 
that  these  are  either  too  young  and  tender  or  too  old  and  tat- 
tered for  a  nesting  site,  and  resort  to  the  trees.  Any  tree  will 
answer,  but  a  favorite  is  the  blue-gum,  whose  extreme  height 
offers  inducements.  Though  why  the  birds  should  take  height 
into  consideration  we  do  not  know,  for  later,  when  the  leaves 
have  matured,  they  select  a  low  banana  stock  with  its  broad 
leaf,  so  low  the  hand  can  reach  it.  It  may  be  they  learn  con- 
fidence as  the  season  advances. 

We  have  seen  no  nests  with  us  made  of  other  material  than 
the  light  yellow  fiber  which  the  birds  strip  from  the  edge  of 
the  palm-leaves,  the  identical  leaf  of  which  the  big  broad  fans 
are  made.  When  the  leaf  is  green  it  drips  small  threads  from 
the  edges  of  its  midribs,  which  you  see  in  the  fan  as  thick 
grooves.  These  threads  the  orioles  may  be  seen  pulling  out 
or  off  any  hour  in  the  day  if  the  nest  be  located  in  a  tree.  If 
they  have  found  a  suitable  banana  leaf  they  work  only  in  the 
morning  and  evening,  as  the  leaf  folds  up  like  a  book  in  the 
daytime,  and  the  sharp  apex  under  which  the  nest  cuddles  is 
difficult  to  reach. 

An  oriole  works  only  from  below,  pushing  the  thread  up, 
and  pulling  it  down  the  width  of  two  or  three  veins  away  from 
the  first  stitch,  making  a  good  hold.  She  first  leaves  a  dozen 
or  twenty  threads  swinging,  after  doubling  her  stitches  to 
make  them  fast.  Then  she  ties  and  twists  the  ends  of  the 


The  Orioles  59 

threads  together  at  suitable  length  and  width  for  the  inner 
lining  of  the  hammock;  thus  fashioning  the  inner  space  first 
and  adding  to  the  outside.  When  the  whole  is  completed, 
she  lines  it  with  soft  materials,  using  but  one  kind  of  material 
in  the  same  lining.  The  banana-leaf  hammock  has  two  open- 
ings, back  and  front,  through  either  of  which  the  birds  enter 
or  emerge.  As  the  nest  progresses  in  size  the  leaf  is  spread 
apart,  until  on  completion  the  thick  midrib  passes  directly 
over  the  nest  and  fixes  the  shape  of  the  whole  like  a  roof  or 
a  tent.  It  is  cool  and  always  swinging,  and  on  the  whole  is 
an  ideal  nursery. 

The  adaptation  of  the  oriole's  feet  for  clinging  and  perch- 
ing is  a  good  thought  of  nature,  else  the  bird  could  never 
weave  from  below  as  she  does.  She  sticks  her  sharp  toes 
through  the  mesh  of  the  leaf,  clinging  to  a  rib  while  she 
works. 

This  custom  of  beginning  on  the  inside  of  the  nest  marks 
the  building  instincts  of  all  the  hang-birds,  for  should  they 
reverse  the  order  they  would  make  a  mere  tangle  without 
inside  proportions.  It  would  be  impossible  to  weave  from 
without.  As  the  nest  progresses  the  outer  threads  are  coarser 
and  less  closely  woven,  brought  together  at  certain  points  of 
attachment  to  the  twig  or  the  leaf  rib,  and  making  a  nest  the 
winds  might  play  with,  but  not  steal  away. 

The  oriole's  nest  is  the  poetry  of  bird  architecture,  be  it 
swung  in  an  apple-tree  or  an  elm  or  a  maple,  or  under  a  leaf. 
Her  slender  beak  is  her  needle,  her  shuttle  her  hands,  her 
one  means  of  livelihood.  We  may  call  her  fabric  a  tangle  if 
we  will ;  to  the  eye  of  Mother  Nature  it  is  a  texture  surpass- 
ing human  ingenuity,  the  art  for  making  which  has  descended 
by  instinct  to  all  her  family.  It  is  as  beautiful  as  seaweed, 


60  Birds  of  Song  and  Story 

as  intricate  as  the  network  of  a  foxglove  leaf,  and  suggests 
the  indefinite  strands  of  a  lace-work  spider's  cocoon.  All 
homage  to  the  oriole! 

What  a  piece  of  good  fortune  it  is  that  they 
Come  faithfully  back  to  us  every  May; 
No  matter  how  far  in  the  winter  they  roam, 
They  are  sure  to  return  to  their  summer  home. 

What  money  could  buy  such  a  suit  as  this? 
What  music  can  match  that  voice  of  his? 
And  who  such  a  quaint  little  house  could  build, 
To  be  with  a  beautiful  family  filled? 

O  happy  winds  that  shall  rock  them  soft, 
In  their  swinging  cradle  hung  high  aloft; 
O  happy  leaves  that  the  nest  shall  screen, 
And  happy  sunbeams  that  steal  between. 

CELIA  THAXTER. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  BIOGRAPHY  OF  A  CANARY-BIRD 

Sing  away,  aye,  sing  away, 

Merry  little  bird, 
Always  gayest  of  the  gay, 
Though  a  woodland  roundelay 

You  ne'er  sung  nor  heard; 
Though  your  life  from  youth  to  age 
Passes  in  a  narrow  cage. 

Near  the  window  wild  birds  fly, 

Trees  are  waving  round; 
Fair  things  everywhere  you  spy 
Through  the  glass  pane's  mystery, 

Your  small  life's  small  bound; 
Nothing  hinders  your  desire 
But  a  little  gilded  wire. 

MRS.  CRAIK. 

He  didn't  look  very  much  like  a  bird,  being  mostly  a  big 
little  stomach,  as  bare  of  feathers  as  a  beechnut  just  out  of 
the  burr,  with  here  and  there  on  the  head  and  back  a  tuft  of 
down.  His  eyelids  bulged  prominently,  but  did  not  open, 
sight  being  unnecessary  in  consideration  of  the  needs  of  his 
large  stomach.  Said  needs  were  partially  satisfied  every  few 
minutes  with  the  nursing-bottle. 

And  a  very  primitive  nursing-bottle  it  was,  being  no  other 
than  the  beak  of  the  parent  bird  thrust  far  down  the  little 
throat,  as  is  the  family  custom  of  the  rest  of  the  finches. 

From  somewhere  in  the  breast  of  the  mother  a  supply 
was  always  forthcoming,  and  found  its  way  down  the  tiny 

61 


6a  Birds  of  Song  and  Story 

throat  of  the  baby  and  into  the  depths  of  its  pudgy  being. 
This  food,  which  was  moist  and  smooth,  was  very  nourishing 
indeed,  and  sweet  as  well,  for  it  tasted  good,  and  left  such 
a  relish  in  the  mouth  that  said  mouth  always  opened  of  itself 
when  the  mother  bird  came  near.  But  no  more  than  its  own 
share  of  the  victuals  did  Dicky  get,  though  he  did  his  very 
best  to  have  it  all.  There  were  other  babies  in  the  same 
cradle  to  be  looked  after  and  fed.  And  they  all  five  were  as 
much  alike  as  five  peas,  excepting  that  Dicky  was  the  smallest 
of  all  and  was  kept  pushed  well  down  in  the  bottom  of  the 
nest.  This  did  not  prevent  his  mother  from  noticing  his  open 
mouth  when  it  came  his  turn  to  be  fed. 

Canary  mothers  have  sharp  eyes;  so  have  canary  fathers, 
as  will  be  seen. 

Now,  when  this  particular  pair  of  birds  began  to  look  about 
the  cage  for  a  good  place  to  fix  upon  for  family  affairs,  some 
kind  hand  from  outside  fastened  a  little  round  basket  in  one 
corner,  exactly  of  the  right  sort  to  stimulate  nesting  business. 
It  was  an  old-fashioned  basket,  with  openwork  sides  and  bot- 
tom, airy  and  clean.  Now,  had  this  basket  been  a  box  in- 
stead, we  should  have  had  no  tragedy  to  record ;  or  had  the 
mesh  been  closely  woven,  no  fatal  mistake  (though  well  meant) 
would  have  darkened  the  sky  of  this  domestic  affair.  But 
alas!  the  truth  must  be  told,  since  the  biography  we  are 
writing  admits  of  no  reservations. 

It  all  came  about  by  the  interference  of  the  father  bird, 
whose  presence  in  the  nursery  should  have  been  forbidden  at 
the  start.  The  mother  was  more  than  once  alarmed  by  his 
activity  and  misapplied  zeal  about  the  nest,  and  she  had 
scolded  him  away  with  emphatic  tones. 

Not  having  anything  of  importance  to  do  save  to  eat  all 


OF  THE 

|    UNIVERSITY  ) 


The  Biography  of  a  Canary-Bird      63 

day  and  sleep  all  night,  he  was  on  the  alert  for  employment. 
One  dreadful  morning,  when  the  mother  was  attending  to 
breakfast,  this  father  canary  espied  some  tatters  sticking  out 
of  the  bottom  meshes  of  the  nest  basket,  bits  of  string  ends 
and  threads,  carelessly  and  innocently  overlooked. 

"Ah,"  thought  he,  "here  is  something  that  ought  to  be 
attended  to  at  once." 

And  he  went  to  work!  He  thrust  his  sharp  beak  up  be- 
tween the  round  meshes  of  the  basket  bottom  and  pulled  at 
every  thread  he  could  lay  hold  of,  struggling  beneath,  fairly 
losing  his  foothold  in  his  eagerness  to  pull  them  out.  Hav- 
ing succeeded  in  dragging  most  of  the  material  from  beneath 
the  birdlings,  he  caught  sight  of  a  few  more  straight  pink 
strings  lying  across  the  meshes,  and  began  tugging  at  them. 
The  mother,  feeding  the  babies  from  the  edge  of  the  nest 
above,  noticed  the  little  ones  each  in  its  turn  crouching 
farther  and  farther  into  the  bottom  of  the  cradle,  faintly  open- 
ing their  mouths  as  if  to  cry,  but  being  too  young  and  weak 
to  utter  a  sound.  It  was  a  mystery,  but  the  deepest  mystery 
of  it  all  was  the  fact  that  little  Dicky,  the  dwarf  of  the  family, 
came  to  the  top  as  the  rest  worked  down,  and  was  getting 
more  than  his  share  of  the  breakfast. 

About  this  time  the  mistress  of  the  canary-cage  came  to 
see  after  her  pets,  and  beheld  a  sight  which  made  her  scream 
as  hard  as  if  she  had  seen  a  mouse.  There,  beneath  the  nest, 
was  the  father  bird  tugging  at  protruding  feet  and  legs  of  baby 
birds  with  all  his  might,  growing  more  and  more  excited  as  he 
saw  his  supposed  strings  resisting  his  attempts  to  pull  them 
through. 

When  the  affair  was  looked  into,  there  was  but  one  bird 
left  alive  of  the  five  little  infants  no  more  than  five  days  old, 


64  Birds  of  Song  and  Story 

and  they  were  released  from  their  predicament  to  have  a 
decent  burial  in  the  garden  at  the  foot  of  a  motherly-looking 
cabbage  head  that  stood  straight  up  in  disgust  of  the  cruel 
affair,  "as  if  she  would  ever  have  such  a  thing  happen  to  her 
little  cabbages !"  True,  she  had  no  little  cabbages  of  her 
own,  but  that  made  no  difference. 

Now  that  we  have  tucked  away  these  four  little  canary- 
birds,  who  never  saw  the  light  of  day,  and  therefore  never 
could  realize  what  they  missed  by  not  holding  on  harder  to 
what  little  they  had  by  way  of  feet  and  legs,  we  will  drop 
the  painful  subject  and  attend  to  Dicky. 

Of  course  the  father  bird  was  excluded  from  the  nursery, 
as  he  should  have  been  weeks  before,  and  there  was  only  one 
mouth  to  feed.  And  that  mouth  was  never  empty  unless  the 
owner  of  it  was  sleeping.  In  fact,  the  babe  was  stuffed; 
though,  strange  to  say,  his  stomach  grew  no  bigger,  but  less 
and  less,  as  the  rest  of  his  body  filled  out. 

At  the  end  of  a  couple  of  weeks  he  had  a  pretty  fair  shirt 
on  his  back,  of  delicate  down,  softer  than  any  shirt  of  wool 
that  ever  warmed  a  human  baby's  body.  And  the  mother 
stood  on  the  edge  of  the  basket  and  admired  it.  She  didn't 
make  it,  of  course,  but  she  was  in  some  way  responsible  for 
it,  and  no  doubt  felt  proud  of  the  bit  of  fancy  work.  She 
noticed,  also,  that  the  eyes  of  the  little  one  did  not  bulge  so 
much  as  they  did,  and  a  tiny  slit  appeared  at  the  center, 
widening  slowly,  until  one  happy  hour  they  opened  fairly  out, 
and  "the  baby  had  eyes."  But  they  were  tired  eyes  to  start 
with,  like  the  eyes  of  most  young  things,  and  they  wearied 
with  just  a  glimpse  of  the  light.  So  the  lids  closed,  and  it 
was  several  days  before  Dicky  actually  took  in  the  situation 
as  he  ought. 


The  Biography  of  a  Canary-Bird     65 

There  being  no  other  baby  to  crowd,  he  kept  to  the  nest 
longer  than  birds  commonly  do,  and  when  at  last  he  got  on 
his  feet  he  was  pretty  well  fledged. 

Now,  when  he  had  obtained  his  first  youthful  suit  of 
clothes,  his  mother  looked  surprised,  as  did  also  his  father, 
it  is  to  be  supposed,  he  in  his  solitary  cage  hanging  close  to 
the  other.  Both  parent  birds  were  pure-bred  Teneriffe 
canaries,  the  male  as  green  as  emerald  and  the  female  more 
dusky  and  lighter.  By  a  strange  freak  of  nature,  which  hap- 
pens sometimes  by  breeding  these  birds  in  captivity,  the 
young  fellow  was  bright  yellow,  of  the  tint  of  a  ripe  lemon, 
beak  white,  and  eye  black,  while  his  feet  and  ankles  retained 
their  original  baby  pinkness.  Oh,  he  was  a  pretty  bird !  But 
it  was  foreordained  in  his  case,  as  in  similar  cases,  that  he 
should  not  be  so  sweet  a  singer  as  though  his  color  had  been 
like  that  of  his  parents.  He  was  not  conscious  of  this  fact, 
however,  and  it  mattered  not  to  him  that  he  was  yellow 
instead  of  green.  Nor  did  he  care  in  the  least  that  the  price 
of  him  was  marked  down  to  a  dollar  and  a  half  when  it  should 
have  been  double.  Away  he  went  in  a  new  cage,  after  his 
new  mistress  had  paid  the  sum  named  into  the  hand  of  his 
former  owner.  He  peeked  out  of  the  bars  as  he  was  carried 
along  swinging  at  every  step ;  that  is,  he  peeped  out  as  well 
as  he  could,  considering  that  a  cloth  was  covered  over  the 
cage.  The  wind  blew  the  cloth  aside  now  and  then  and 
Dicky  saw  wonderful  sights — sights  that  were  familiar  and 
"so  soul-appealing."  Not  that  he,  in  his  own  short  life,  had 
ever  seen  such  sights,  but  that  somehow  in  his  little  being 
were  vague  memories  or  conceptions  of  what  his  ancestors 
had  seen.  It  is  hard  to  explain  it,  but  everything  cannot  be 
explained.  When  we  come  to  one  of  these  things  we  call  it 


66  Birds  of  Song  and  Story 

"instinct,"  with  a  wise  shake  of  our  heads,  just  as  we  were 
told  to  say  "Jerusalem"  when  we  came  to  a  word  we 
couldn't  pronounce  when  we  were  very  young  and  read  in 
the  Second  Reader. 

Well,  Dicky  had  a  good  home  of  his  own,  and  lived  for  a 
purpose,  although  he  never  developed  into  a  trained  singer. 
In  the  heart  of  him  he  longed  for  a  mate,  and  often  expressed 
his  desires  in  low,  musical  notes.  But  no  mate  came  to  him, 
and  he  would  sit  for  hours  pondering  on  his  bachelor's  lot, 
and  singing  more  notes, 

Now,  wild  birds  are  constantly  having  something  "hap- 
pen" to  them.  They  fly  against  a  wire  or  get  a  wing  hurt, 
or  the  young  fall  out  of  the  nest  and  can't  find  their  mother. 
Dicky's  mistress  was  always  on  the  lookout  for  such  acci- 
dents, and  she  brought  such  birds  into  the  house  and  nursed 
them  and  brought  them  back  to  health  when  possible.  It 
occurred  to  her  to  offer  a  "calling"  or  "vocation"  to  Dicky. 
So  she  made  a  small  private  hospital  of  his  cage,  into  which 
she  placed  the  victims  of  accident  or  sickness  as  she  found 
them.  Dicky  was  surprised,  never  having  seen  a  bird  save 
his  parents,  and  his  lady-love  in  his  dreams,  and  at  first  he 
stood  on  tiptoe  and  was  frightened. 

But  he  learned  to  be  kind  after  a  while,  and  to  show  his 
visitors  where  the  food  and  water  were  kept,  and  to  snuggle 
up  to  them  on  the  perch  when  it  came  bedtime.  Many  and 
many  a  poor  invalid  did  he  aid  in  restoring  to  freedom  and 
flight,  until  he  became  pretty  well  acquainted  with  the  birds 
that  nest  in  our  grounds. 

Year  after  year  the  good  work  went  on,  and  Dicky  devel- 
oped more  musical  talent,  until  he  sang  sweetly,  imitating 
the  finches  and  linnets  outside.  In  the  fall  of  the  year,  when 


The  Biography  of  a  Canary-Bird      67 

the  wild  birds  were  thinking  of  their  annual  migrations,  Dicky 
himself  grew  restless  and  quit  his  songs.  Then  his  mistress 
opened  his  door  and  told  him  he  might  "go."  Not  far 
away,  of  course,  but  all  about  in  the  room,  that  seemed  to 
this  caged  bird  as  big  as  any  world  could  be.  In  his  quest 
for  new  nooks  he  came  by  accident  upon  the  mirror  above 
the  fireplace.  Standing  on  the  edge  of  a  little  vase  before 
the  glass,  just  in  front  of  the  beveled  edge  of  it,  he  espied 
two  yellow  birds,  one  in  the  glass  itself  and  another  in  the 
beveled  edge,  as  a  strict  law  of  science  had  determined  should 
be  the  case. 

In  a  second  the  whole  bearing  of  the  bird  was  changed. 
His  feathers  lay  close,  his  legs  stood  long  and  slim,  and  his 
eyes  bulged,  as  they  never  had  bulged  since  the  lids  parted 
when  he  was  two  weeks  old.  Then  he  found  voice.  He 
sang  as  never  a  green  bird  sang  sweeter.  He  turned  his 
head  and  the  two  birds  in  the  glass  turned  their  heads.  He 
preened  his  wing  and  the  two  birds  preened  each  a  wing.  His 
little  throat  swelled  out  in  melody,  the  tip  of  his  beak  point- 
ing straight  to  the  ceiling  of  the  big  room  as  if  it  were  indeed 
the  blue  sky,  and  the  two  birds  sang  with  uplifted  beaks  and 
swelling  throats.  They  were  of  his  own  kind,  his  own  race, 
his  own  ancestral  comrades.  And  they  were  not  green !  The 
low  mesas  of  the  Canary  Islands  never  resounded  to  such 
melody. 

But  melody  was  not  food,  at  least  so  thought  Dicky's 
mistress,  as  she  tempted  the  bird  in  vain  to  eat.  Not  a 
crumb  would  he  touch  until  placed  back  in  his  cage,  where 
he  straightway  forgot  his  recent  discoveries.  As  usual,  he 
took  his  bread  and  cooky  to  the  water-dish  and  set  it  to  soak 
for  dinner,  and  scattered  his  seeds  about  the  cage  floor  in  his 


68  Birds  of  Song  and  Story 

eagerness  to  dispose  of  the  non-essentials,  the  hemp  only 
being,  in  his  opinion,  suitable  for  his  needs.  Of  course  he 
was  obliged  to  pick  up  his  crumbs  after  he  had  thus  assorted 
the  varieties. 

Every  day  when  the  door  was  open  he  flew  straight  to  the 
mirror.  If  we  moved  the  vase  to  the  middle,  away  from  the 
beveled  edge,  he  found  the  place  by  himself  and  stood  on 
tiptoe  exactly  where  the  reflection  accorded  him  the  com- 
panionship of  two  birds,  and  he  would  resume  his  melody. 
It  was  real  to  him,  this  comradeship,  and  it  lasted  until 
actual  and  personally  responsible  companions  were  provided 
for  him. 

Now,  let  not  the  reader  conjure  up  a  picture  of  many  birds 
in  a  cage  with  Dicky  as  governor  or  presiding  elder.  It  was 
midsummer,  when  the  sands  are  hot  and  inviting  to  the  retir- 
ing and  modest  family  known  by  name  as  "lizards."  The 
particular  branch  of  this  family  to  which  we  refer,  and  to 
which  Dicky  was  referred,  is  known  to  scientists,  who  would 
be  precise  of  expression,  as  Gerrhonotus.  But  the  familiar 
name  of  "lizard"  is  sufficient  for  the  creatures  we  placed  in 
a  large  wire  cage  on  the  upper  balcony  and  designed  for 
Dicky's  summer  companions. 

Now,  it  should  not  seem  strange  to  any  one  that  we  chose 
the  lizard  people  to  associate  with  this  yellow-as-gold  canary. 
Were  they  not  one  and  the  same  long  ages  ago?  And  this  is 
no  legend,  but  fact.  Have  they  not  both  to  this  day  scales 
on  their  legs  and  a  good  long  backbone?  To  be  sure,  the 
birds  now  have  feathers  on  most  of  their  bodies,  so  they  may 
be  able  to  fly ;  but  a  long  while  ago  the  bird  had  only  scales, 
and  not  a  single  feather.  And  are  not  baby  lizards  hatched 
from  eggs  laid  by  the  mother  lizard?  Ah,  it  is  a  long  story, 


The  Biography  of  a  Canary-Bird      69 

this,  dating  back  too  far  to  count.  But  long  stories  are  quite 
the  accepted  fashion  in  natural  science,  and  from  reading 
them  we  resolved  to  make  some  observations  of  our  own. 
There  is  more  to  be  gained  sometimes  in  making  observations 
on  one's  own  account  than  by  adopting  those  of  others. 

We  captured  half  a  dozen  lizards  and  gave  them  the  names 
of  Lizbeth,  Liza,  Liz,  and  Lize.  That  is,  four  of  them,  being 
of  the  same  order,  received  these  names ;  there  were  two  little 
ones  besides,  with  peacock-blue  trimmings,  which  have  nothing 
to  do  with  this  story.  The  four  named  were  about  eight  inches 
in  length,  speckled  above  and  silver  beneath.  Their  other 
beauties  and  characteristics  will  not  be  discussed  except  as  it 
becomes  necessary  in  treating  of  Dicky's  further  development. 

From  the  day  when  these  five  creatures  became  fellow- 
captives  they  were  friends.  The  lizards  took  to  sleeping  in 
the  canary's  food-box,  so  that  in  getting  at  his  meals  he  was 
obliged  to  peck  between  them,  and  sometimes  to  step  over 
them  and  crowd  them  with  his  head  after  hidden  seeds.  As 
the  afternoon  sunshine  slanted  across  the  cage  the  five  took 
their  dry  bath  all  in  a  heap,  bird  on  top  with  wings  outspread, 
lizards  in  a  tangle,  each  and  all  thankful  that  there  was  such 
a  thing  as  a  sun  bath  or  family  descent.  Later,  as  the  sun 
was  going  down  and  the  lizards  became  drowsy,  as  lizards  will, 
Dicky  sang  them  a  low  lullaby,  now  on  the  perch  above  them, 
now  on  the  rim  of  the  feed-box.  At  times  another  comrade 
joined  them,  especially  at  this  choral  hour. 

One  of  those  red  and  white  striped  snakes  seen  in  ferns 
and  brakes  along  watercourses  made  a  home  in  the  cage  with 
the  bird  and  the  lizards.  This  snake  had  an  ear  for  music ; 
at  the  first  notes  he  emerged  from  his  lair  slowly  and  cau- 
tiously, lifted  his  graceful  head  toward  the  singer,  and  glided 


70  Birds  of  Song  and  Story 

in  his  direction.  If  the  bird  were  on  the  perch  the  snake 
would  crawl  up  the  end  posts,  taking  hold  with  his  scales, 
which,  of  course,  were  his  feet,  and  lie  at  length  on  the  perch 
at  Dicky's  feet,  watching  out  of  its  beautiful  eyes.  At  other 
times  it  would  merely  glide  toward  the  bird,  lift  its  head  erect 
some  five  or  six  inches,  and  remain  motionless  until  the  song 
was  finished.  A  big,  warty  hop-toad,  also  an  inmate  of  this 
asylum,  was  a  friend  of  Dicky's,  as  indeed  was  every  creature, 
even  to  the  big  grasshopper.  This  toad  and  the  bird  were 
often  seen  in  the  bath  together,  the  toad  simply  squatting,  as 
is  the  custom  of  toads,  the  bird  splashing  and  spattering  the 
water  over  everything,  including,  of  course,  the  toad.  The 
toad  blinked  and  squatted  flatter  to  the  bottom  of  the  bath, 
hopping  out  when  the  bird  was  done,  and  the  two  sunning 
themselves  after  nature's  own  way  of  using  a  bath-towel. 

It  would  be  too  long  a  story  were  one  to  tell  of  the  songs 
Dicky  sang  to  the  drone  of  the  drones  bumming  away  against 
the  wire,  sorry  perhaps  that  they  were  to  become  dinner  to 
lizards  before  summer  was  half  over.  But  we  must  bring  the 
biography  to  an  end,  hoping  that  these  few  reminiscences 
will  tend  to  interest  people  in  the  " Dickies"  that  are  about 
them  in  wire  cages,  too  often  neglected  and  never  half  com- 
prehended. 

But  we  should  by  all  means  give  an  account  of  the  last  we 
ever  saw  of  this  particular  Dicky. 

During  his  stay  on  the  balcony  he  had  become  acquainted 
with  the  finches  and  linnets  and  mocking-birds  of  the  yard, 
holding  quiet  talks  with  them  in  the  twilight,  and  growing 
more  thoughtful  at  times,  even  to  the  extent  of  watching  for 
opportunities  to  escape.  One  evening,  just  as  we  lifted  the 
door  to  set  in  a  fresh  pan  of  water,  out  darted  Dicky.  Straight 


The  Biography  of  a  Canary-Bird      71 

to  a  tree  near  by  he  flew,  and  called  himself  over  and  over 
again.  We  cried  to  him,  " Dicky,  O  Dicky,  come  back." 

Ah,  but  here  was  a  taste  of  freedom — the  freedom  which 
his  ancestral  relatives  had  enjoyed  on  the  low  slopes  of  Tene- 
riffe  before  ever  a  foreign  ship  had  carried  them  away  captive. 
And  Dicky  had  never  read  a  word  about  his  ancestors  and 
their  freedom!  Therefore,  what  did  he  know  about  it? 
Scientists  call  it  " instinct.*'  It  is  a  word  too  hard  for  us, 
and  we  will  say  "Jerusalem"  and  let  it  pass.  Away  across 
the  street  flew  Dicky,  the  bird  of  prison  birth,  the  bird  of 
only  two  comrades  of  his  kind  and  color,  and  these  but  shad- 
ows in  a  mirror. 

The  lizards  heard  us  call,  and  peeped  lazily  over  the  edge 
of  the  hammock  seed-box,  blinking  sleepily,  and  then  cuddled 
down  again  without  sense  of  their  loss. 

Running  after  the  bird  did  not  bring  him  back,  as  every- 
body knows  to  his  sorrow  who  has  once  tried  it.  A  glint  of 
gold  in  the  pine-tree,  a  radiance  as  of  lemon  streamers  in  and 
out  of  the  cypress  hedge,  and  we  saw  Dicky  no  more. 

My  bird  has  flown  away, 
Far  out  of  sight  has  flown,  I  know  not  where. 

Look  in  your  lawn,  I  pray, 
Ye  maidens  kind  and  fair, 
And  see  if  my  beloved  bird  be  there. 

Find  him,  but  do  not  dwell 
With  eyes  too  fond  on  the  fair  form  you  see, 

Nor  love  his  song  too  well; 
Send  him  at  once  to  me, 
Or  leave  him  to  the  air  and  liberty. 

From  the  Spanish. 

Some  day  a  budding  ornithologist,  more  eager  than  wise, 
with  note-book  and  pencil,  will  possibly  record  a  "new 


72  Birds  of  Song  and  Story 

species"  among  the  foothill  trees — a  species  that  resembles 
both  yellow  warbler  and  goldfinch.  And  the  young  man  will 
look  very  knowing,  all  alone  out  in  the  woods;  and  he  will 
send  his  specimen  to  the  National  Museum  for  identification. 
And  the  museum  people  will  shake  their  wiser  heads  and 
inform  the  "ornithologist"  that,  in  their  opinion,  there  is 
more  of  the  ordinary  tame  canary  "let  loose"  in  the  indi- 
vidual than  goldfinch  or  warbler. 
Let  it  pass. 

A  bird  for  thee  in  silken  bonds  I  hold, 
Whose  yellow  plumage  shines  like  polished  gold; 
From  distant  isles  the  lovely  stranger  came, 
And  bears  the  far-away  Canary's  name. 

LYTTLETON. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

SPARROWS  AND   SPARROWS 

What  is  it,  then,  to  be  a  queen,  if  it  is  not  like  the  silver  linden-tree  to 
cast  a  protecting  shadow  over  the  world's  sweetest  song-birds? 

CARMEN  SYLVA. 

Grudge  not  the  wheat 
Which  hunger  forces  birds  to  eat; 
Your  blinded  eyes,  worst  foes  to  you, 
Can't  see  the  good  which  sparrows  do. 
Did  not  poor  birds  with  watching  rounds 
Pick  up  the  insects  from  your  grounds? 
Did  they  not  tend  your  rising  grain, 
You  then  might  sow  to  reap  in  vain? 

JOHN  CLARE. 

No  bird,  unless  it  be  the  crow,  is  so  nicknamed  as  the 
sparrow.  None  is  so  evil  spoken  of,  none  so  loved.  Accepted 
enemy  of  the  farmer,  it  is  the  farmer's  dearest  friend. 

It  is  a  good,  large  family,  that  of  the  sparrows,  ninety  or 
more  varieties  occurring  in  the  United  States.  Always,  of 
whatever  tint  or  markings,  it  is  recognized  by  its  stout,  stalky 
shape,  short  legs,  and  strong  feet;  but  more  surely  by  its 
bulging,  cone-like  bill,  pointed  toward  the  end.  This  beak  is 
the  bird's  best  characteristic,  just  as  a  certain  nose  is  the  lead- 
ing feature  of  some  human  families.  And  there  is  character 
in  a  sparrow's  nose.  It  is  used  for  original  research  and  in- 
vestigation, on  account  of  which  the  sparrow,  of  all  the  birds, 
deserves  the  degree  of  doctor  of  philosophy  conferred  upon 
him;  omitting,  of  course,  one  single  member  of  the  family, 
the  English  sparrow.  And  why  the  English  sparrow  should 

73 


74  Birds  of  Song  and  Story 

come  in  for  any  notice  among  the  song-birds  we  cannot  tell, 
unless  it  be  the  fact  that  it  really  does  haunt  them,  and  they 
have  to  put  up  with  it  almost  everywhere  they  go.  Surely  it 
needs  no  picture  to  introduce  this  little  vagrant,  save  in  a  few 
regions  sacred  as  yet  from  its  presence.  Even  this  little 
foreign  rogue  has  lovable  traits,  were  it  not  for  the  prejudice 
against  him.  What  persistence  he  has  in  the  face  of  persecu- 
tion and  death!  What  philosophy  in  the  production  of  large 
families  to  compensate  for  loss!  What  domestic  habits! 
What  accommodation  to  circumstances!  What  cheerful 
acceptance  of  his  lot !  Surely  the  English  sparrow  presents 
an  example  worthy  of  imitation. 

To  those  whose  preferences  are  for  cooked  little  birds, 
what  suggestions  are  stirred  by  the  hosts  of  these  sparrows 
invitingly  arrayed  on  roof  and  porch  and  fences.  They  make 
as  good  pot-pie  as  the  bobolink  or  robin,  and  it  would  seem 
less  sacrilege  to  so  appropriate  them.  The  rich  and  poor 
alike  might  indulge  in  the  delicacy.  Especially  might  the 
weak  little  starvelings  in  the  cities,  whose  dippe-r  of  fresh,  new 
milk  is  long  in  coming,  or  never  to  come  at  all,  find  in  spar- 
row broth  a  nourishing  substitute.  Who  knows  but  for  this 
very  purpose  the  birds  are  sent  to  the  large  cities.  We  read 
of  a  story  of  "  quails"  in  a  certain  Old  Book,  and  more  than 
half  believe  the  wonderful  tale.  Why  not  make  a  modern 
story  of  sparrows  sent  "on  purpose,"  and  cultivate  a  taste  for 
the  little  sinner?  And  its  eggs!  Why,  a  sparrow  hen  will 
lay  on,  indefinitely,  like  a  real  biddy.  Only  be  sure  to 
respect  the  "nest-egg,"  so  the  old  bird  may  have  one  always 
by  her  "to  measure  by." 

Think  of  the  "little  mothers"  of  the  big  cities,  raising 
baby  weaklings  on  sparrow  broth  and  poached  sparrow's  eggs. 


ENGLISH   SPARROW. 


Sparrows  and  Sparrows  75 

It  is  a  pity  to  waste  such  fat,  little  scraps  of  meat  as  are 
thrown  about.  Besides,  making  good  use  of  the  birds,  if  they 
must  be  killed,  is  good  for  the  soul  of  boys.  It  would  teach 
them  thrift  and  a  good  purpose.  Our  best  ornithologists 
declare  the  English  sparrow  "a  nuisance  without  a  redeeming 
quality."  Pity  they  hadn't  thought  about  the  pie. 

But  there  are  sparrows  and  sparrows.  Some  of  the  family 
are  our  sweetest  singers.  Take  the  song-sparrow,  the  bird  of 
the  silver  tongue.  It  is  known  throughout  the  Eastern 
United  States  and  Canada;  and  on  the  Pacific  coast  and  else- 
where it  is  still  the  song-sparrow,  though  it  varies  slightly  in 
color  in  different  regions.  In  many  states  it  remains  all 
winter,  singing  when  the  snow  is  falling,  and  keeping  comrade- 
ship with  the  chickadee. 

Everybody  knows  the  little  fellow  by  his  voice  if  not  by 
his  coat.  Nothing  fine  about  the  coat  or  gown  save' its  mod- 
est tints.  But,  as  with  many  another  bird  of  gray  or  brown 
plumage,  its  song  is  the  sweetest.  Hearty,  limpid,  cheerful 
in  the  saddest  weather,  always  ending  in  the  melody  of  an 
upward  inflection,  as  if  he  invited  answer. 

The  song-sparrow  is  the  only  one  we  have  noticed  to 
gargle  the  song  in  its  throat,  swallowing  a  few  drops  with 
each  mouthful ;  or  it  may  be  that  he  stops  to  take  a  breath 
between  notes.  We  have  seen  him  sing,  sprawled  flat  on  a 
log  in  a  hot  day,  with  wings  outspread,  and  taking  a  sun  bath. 
The  song  is  always  very  brief,  as  if  he  would  not  tire  his 
listeners,  though  he  gives  them  an  encore  with  hearty  grace. 
Individual  birds  differ  in  song,  no  two  singing  their  dozen 
notes  exactly  alike. 

While  his  mate  is  patiently  waiting  to  get  the  best  results 
from  her  four  or  five  party-colored  eggs,  the  song-sparrow 


76  Birds  of  Song  and  Story 

sings  constantly,  never  far  from  the  nest  in  the  bush  or  the 
low  tree,  or  even  on  the  ground,  where  cats  are  debarred 
from  the  vicinity.  One  never  can  depend  on  the  exact  color 
of  the  eggs,  for  they  vary  in  tint  from  greenish  white  to 
browns  and  lavender,  speckled  or  clouded,  "just  as  it  hap- 
pens." 

And  the  feathers  of  the  birds  have  all  these  colors  mingled 
and  dotted  and  striped,  and  dashed  off,  as  you  may  see  for 
yourself,  by  looking  out  of  the  window  or  taking  a  still  stroll 
down  along  the  creek. 

The  song-sparrow  has  a  pert  little  way  of  sticking  its  tail 
straight  up  like  a  wren  when  it  runs — and  it  is  always  running 
about.  In  our  grounds  they  follow  us  like  kittens,  keeping 
up  their  happy  chirp  as  if  glad  they  ever  lived  and  were  blessed 
with  feet  and  a  beak. 

The  nest  of  the  song-sparrow  is  compact  and  snug,  with 
little  loose  material  about  the  base  of  it.  We  have  had  a 
long  hunt  many  a  time  to  find  it.  If  we  are  in  the  vicinity 
of  it  the  two  birds  follow  us,  chirping,  never  going  straight  to 
the  nest,  but  wandering  as  we  wander,  picking  up  food  in  the 
way,  and  appearing  to  hold  a  chatty  conversation.  It  is  not 
evident  that  they  are  trying  to  conceal  the  fact  that  they  have 
a  nest  and  that  we  are  near  it ;  for  if  we  sit  down  and  wait, 
the  mother  goes  straight  to  it  without  a  sign  of  fear.  But  we 
must  wait  a  long  while  sometimes,  until  dinner  is  over,  for 
these  birds  seem  to  remain  away  from  the  nest  longer  at  a 
time  than  most  birds  do.  They  feed  their  young  on  larvae, 
pecked  out  of  the  loose  earth,  and  tiny  seeds  from  under  the 
bushes,  or  soft  buds  that  have  fallen.  They  pick  up  a  whole 
beakful,  never  being  satisfied  with  the  amount  collected. 
So  it  drips  from  the  corners  of  their  mouths  in  an  odd  fash- 


Sparrows  and  Sparrows  77 

ion,  and  some  of  it  escapes,  especially  if  it  have  feet  of  its 
own. 

We  have  not  seen  a  nest  of  any  other  than  a  dark  color. 
Horsehairs  make  almost  half  of  it,  and  the  outside  is  of 
grass  closely  woven  around.  The  young  birds  are  not 
"scared  out  of  their  wits,"  as  are  some  birdlings,  if  a  stran- 
ger appears,  but  will  snuggle  down  and  look  one  in  the  face. 
Once  off  and  out  they  are  always  hungry,  following  the  parent 
birds  with  a  merry  chirp,  with  the  usual  upward  inflection. 
They  come  early  to  our  garden  table,  where  crumbs  of  cake 
and  other  things  tempt  them  to  eat  too  much.  After  they 
are  filled  they  hop  a  few  feet  away,  and  sit  ruffled  all  up,  and 
blinking  with  satisfaction. 

Once  we  played  a  pretty  trick  on  the  sparrows.  Know- 
ing their  preference  for  sweets,  we  placed  a  saucer  of  black 
New  Orleans  molasses  on  the  table,  with  a  few  crumbs  sprin- 
kled on  the  top.  Of  course  the  birds  took  the  crumbs,  and  of 
course,  again,  they  took  a  taste  of  the  molasses.  It  wasn't 
a  day  before  they  dipped  their  beaks  into  the  molasses  that 
had  now  no  sprinkling  of  crumbs,  and  seemed  surprised  at  its 
lack  of  shape.  It  tasted  good,  and  yet  they  couldn't  pick  it 
up  like  crumbs.  Then  they  took  to  leaving  the  tip  of  the 
bill  in  the  edge  of  it  and  swallowing  like  any  person  of  sense. 
When  they  were  done  they  flew  away  with  the  molasses  drip- 
ping from  their  faces  and  beaks  in  a  laughable  style,  returning 
almost  immediately  with  more  birds. 

The  fact  is,  a  sparrow  is  a  boy  when  it  comes  to  eating. 
Were  it  not  for  its  good  appetite,  it  couldn't  put  up  with 
"just  anything."  Sparrows  love  the  towns  and  cities  because 
they  find  crumbs  there.  Our  friend  the  baker  knows  them, 
and  many  a  meal  do  they  find  ready  spread  at  his  back  door. 


78  Birds  of  Song  and  Story 

So  does  Bridget  the  cook,  and  even  Lung  Wo,  if  their  hearts 
happen  to  have  a  soft  place  for  the  birds.  As  for  the  boy 
around  the  corner,  who  walks  about  on  crutches,  he  knows  all 
about  the  sparrows'  preferences.  In  fact,  sparrows  seem  to 
have  a  special  liking  for  boys  on  crutches.  One  little  fellow 
we  knew  used  to  lay  his  crutch  down  flat  on  the  ground  and 
place  food  up  and  down  on  it  when  the  sparrows  were  hungry 
in  the  morning.  And  the  crutch  came  to  be  the  "family 
board,"  around  which  the  birds  gathered,  be  the  crutch  laid 
flat  or  tilted  aslant  on  the  doorstep.  In  this  way  Johnny 
of  the  crippled  foot  came  to  have  a  good  understanding  with 
the  birds,  and  many  a  quiet  hour  was  spent  in  their  company. 
Johnny  may  turn  out  to  be  a  great  ornithologist  some  day,  all 
on  account  of  his  crutch.  What  will  it  matter  that  he  may 
never  shoulder  a  gun  and  wander  off  to  the  woods  to  shoot 
"specimens"  ?  His  knowledge  of  bird  ways  will  serve  a  better 
purpose  than  a  possible  gun.  It  was  Johnny  who  first  told 
us  to  notice  how  a  sparrow  straddles  his  little  stick  legs  far 
apart  when  he  walks,  spreading  his  toes  in  a  comical  way. 

Eastern  and  Western  song-sparrows  differ,  and  so  do  indi- 
vidual birds  everywhere — not  only  in  their  songs,  but  in  the 
distribution  of  specks  and  stripes  on  their  clothes.  What  we 
have  said  about  our  song-sparrows  may  not  wholly  apply  to 
the  family  elsewhere.  These  differences  lead  bird-lovers  to 
study  each  of  the  birds  about  his  own  door  and  forests  with- 
out placing  too  much  credit  upon  what  others  say. 

There  is  much  of  the  year  when  sparrows  live  almost  solely 
on  seeds,  and  this  is  the  time  when  they  join  hands  with  the 
farmer,  so  to  speak,  and  help  him  with  the  thistles  and  other 
weeds,  by  work  at  the  seed  tufts  and  pods.  Sparrows  love  to 
run  in  and  out  of  holes  and  cracks  and  between  cornstalks  and 


Sparrows  and  Sparrows  79 

dry  woodpiles.     It  was  this  habit  of  peeping  into  everything, 
on  the  part  of  the  birds,  that  led  the  olden  poet  to  write : 

"  I  love  the  sparrows'  ways  to  watch 

Upon  the  cotter's  sheds, 
So  here  and  there  pull  out  the  thatch 
That  they  may  hide  their  heads." 

It  was  a  pretty  idea  and  a  charitable  one,  that  of  the 
poet's.  In  a  country  where  roofs  are  shingled  with  thatch, 
or  dry  sticks  and  leaves  overlapping,  the  sparrows  are  familiar 
residents;  and  where  somebody  remembers  to  "pull  out  the 
thatch"  or  make  a  loose  little  corner  on  purpose,  they  sleep 
all  night.  We  have  ourselves  made  many  a  pile  of  brush  on 
purpose  for  the  sparrows. 

The  white-crowned  sparrows  winter  with  us,  going  far  up 
the  Alaskan  coast  to  nest  in  the  spring,  as  do  also  the  tree- 
sparrow,  the  golden-crowned,  savanna,  and  some  others, 
including  the  beautiful  fox-sparrow.  These  birds  arrive  in 
the  Far  North  as  soon  as  the  rivers  are  open,  and  to  the  gold- 
seekers,  who  get  to  their  dreary  work  with  pick  and  spade, 
are  like  friends  from  home.  Many  a  homesick  miner  stops  a 
moment  to  listen  to  their  clear,  ringing  songs,  almost  always 
in  the  rising  inflection,  as  if  a  question  were  asked.  And  for 
answer,  the  man  who  sometimes  would  "give  all  the  gold  he 
ever  saw"  for  one  glimpse  of  home,  draws  his  sleeve  across 
his  eyes. 

Some  of  the  sparrows  which  nest  in  Alaska  use  pure  white 
ptarmigan  feathers  for  nest-lining;  while  their  cousins  in  the 
east,  on  the  opposite  side,  breeding  in  Labrador,  use  eider- 
down. In  these  far  northern  latitudes  these  birds  scratch  in 
the  moss  and  dead  leaves  of  summer-time,  often  coming  to  ice 
at  the  depth  of  three  or  four  inches.  The  summers  are  so 


8o  Birds  of  Song  and  Story 

short  that  insect  life  is  very  scarce,  excepting  the  mosquitoes. 
But  there  are  berries!  And  an  occasional  hunter's  or  gold- 
seeker's  cabin  always  furnishes  meals  at  short  notice.  Men 
may  pass  the  birds  at  home  in  civilization  with  scarcely  a 
thought;  but  when  away  and  alone,  the  presence  of  a  bird 
they  have  known  in  other  climes  brings  them  to  their  senses. 
It  is  then  they  recognize  the  fact  that  birds  are  their  com- 
rades and  friends,  to  be  cherished  and  fed,  not  always  hunted 
and  eaten. 

On  account  of  the  distribution  of  sparrows  the  world 
over,  many  legends  have  been  written  of  them.  The  very 
earliest  we  have  read  is  the  one  that  assures  us  the  sparrow 
was  seen  by  Mother  Eve  in  the  Garden  of  Eden,  on  the 
day  she  ate  of  the  forbidden  fruit.  In  fact,  the  "tree"  was 
full  of  sparrows  warning  the  woman  not  to  eat,  though  the 
birds  themselves  were  making  for  the  fruit  with  might  and 
main. 

In  the  story  of  Joseph  it  is  recorded  that  the  "chief 
baker"  had  a  dream.  In  his  dream  he  bore  three  baskets  on 
his  head.  In  the  uppermost  basket  were  all  kinds  of  "bake- 
meats  for  the  king."  While  the  baker  was  walking  to  the 
palace  with  the  baskets  on  his  head  the  sparrows  came  and 
ate  all  the  meat  there  was  in  the  upper  basket. 

In  the  narrative  the  name  of  the  birds  is  not  given,  but 
the  fact  that  they  "ate  up  the  meat,"  going  in  at  the  little 
wickerwork  spaces,  leads  us  to  believe  they  were  sparrows. 
It  was  only  a  dream ;  but  people  dream  their  waking  thoughts 
and  habits.  It  is  supposed  that  this  chief  baker  was  fond  of 
birds,  and  it  was  customary  for  him  to  feed  them  on  the  king's 
victuals. 

Well,  the  king  is  no  poorer  off  now  that  the  birds  had 


Sparrows  and  Sparrows  81 

their  fill.  And  we  wish  peace  to  the  soul  of  the  baker  for  his 
kindness. 

In  the  ballad  of  the  "  Babes  in  the  Wood"  it  was  the  spar- 
row who  made  the  fatal  mistake  which  took  off  Cock  Robin 
before  the  wedding  feast  was  over.  Poor  sparrow!  He  has 
never  been  known  to  carry  a  bow  and  arrow  under  his  coat 
from  that  day  to  this.  Thinking  of  that  old  ballad,  we  have 
often  watched  the  robins  and  the  sparrows  together,  and  are 
never  able  to  make  out  that  the  robin  holds  any  grudge 
against  his  ancient  friend  and  guest  who  made  the  blunder. 

In  nearly  all  the  markets  of  the  Old  World  sparrows  have 
been  sold  as  food,  bringing  the  very  smallest  price  imaginable. 
In  Palestine  two  of  them  were  sold  for  the  least  piece  of 
money  in  use,  though  what  anybody  wants  of  two  sparrows, 
unless  to  make  a  baby's  meal,  we  do  not  know. 

The  tree-sparrow  of  England  is  common  in  the  Holy 
Land,  and  it  was  probably  this  bird  to  which  the  New  Testa- 
ment alludes. 

Of  our  American  sparrows,  the  fox-sparrow  is  probably 
the  most  beautiful  in  markings.  By  its  name  one  might 
imagine  it  had  something  to  do  with  foxes,  and  so  it  has,  but 
in  color  only,  being  a  rich  foxy  brown  in  its  darker  tints. 
This  bird  is  seen  all  winter  in  Washington  on  the  Capitol 
grounds,  scratching  in  the  leaves  for  food  and  singing  its  loyal 
melody.  The  fox-sparrow  has  been  sometimes  detained  in 
captivity,  but  as  a  rule  grows  too  fat  for  a  good  singer.  It 
seems  to  be  the  same  with  them  as  with  our  domestic  fowls — 
if  too  fat  they  give  poor  returns.  The  hen  and  the  sparrow 
and  most  people  must  scratch  for  a  living,  would  they  make 
a  success  in  life.  But  who  would  want  to  cage  a  sparrow 
unless  it  be  an  invalid  who  can  never  go  out  of  the  room? 


82  Birds  of  Song  and  Story 

Even  here,  if  the  invalid  have  a  window-sill  it  were  better; 
for  the  window-sill  is  sparrow's  own  delight,  if  it  be  furnished 
with  crumbs.  Or,  if  one  would  see  some  fun,  let  the  crumbs 
be  in  a  good  round  loaf  tightly  fastened.  This,  let  the  spar- 
row understand,  is  for  him  alone,  and  he  will  burrow  to  the 
heart  of  it.  Caged  birds  make  sorry  companions. 

The  farmer  sometimes  wishes  he  had  all  the  sparrows  he 
ever  saw  in  a  cage.  Well,  farmer,  were  it  not  for  the  spar- 
rows, there  would  be  more  abandoned  farms  than  you  can 
imagine.  Therefore,  let  them  live  and  have  their  freedom. 
And  let  the  farmer's  daughter  make  bread  on  purpose  for 
them.  They  will  make  no  complaints  about  her  first  at- 
tempts, nor  call  it  sour  or  heavy.  Let  the  children  play  at 
camp-fire  and  throw  their  biscuits  to  the  birds.  It  will  give 
them  happy  hearts,  each  of  them,  the  birds  and  the  children. 
The  sparrows  will  respond  with  a  single  word  of  thanks,  but 
it  will  be  hearty. 

"  One  syllable,  clear  and  soft 

As  a  raindrop's  silvery  patter, 
Or  a  tinkling  fairy  bell  heard  aloft, 

In  the  midst  of  the  merry  chatter 
Of  robin,  and  linnet,  and  wren,  and  jay, 

One  syllable  oft  repeated: 
He  has  but  a  single  word  to  say, 

And  of  that  he  will  not  be  cheated." 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  STORY  OF  THE   SUMMER  YELLOWBIRD 

The  little  bird  sits  at  his  door  in  the  sun, 

Atilt  like  a  blossom  among  the  leaves, 
And  lets  his  illumined  being  o'errun 

With  the  deluge  of  summer  it  receives. 
His  mate  feels  the  eggs  beneath  her  wings, 
And  the  heart  in  her  dumb  breast  flutters  and  sings  — 
He  sings  to  the  wide  world,  and  she  to  her  nest; 
In  the  nice  ear  of  Nature,  which  song  is  the  best? 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

Here  is  a  legend  of  the  summer  yellowbird.  Let  who 
will  believe  or  disbelieve.  They  will  think  of  it  as  often  as 
they  see  the  yellow  beauty. 

Once  on  a  time,  when  Mother  Nature  was  very  lavish  of 
her  gold,  she  forgot  to  be  thrifty  and  took  to  spreading  it 
everywhere.  She  thought  she  had  enough  to  make  the  whole 
world  yellow,  this  being  her  favorite  color;  but  she  soon  col- 
lected her  wits,  and  reasoned  that  if  everything  were  yellow 
there  would  be  nothing  left  for  contrast.  So  she  quit  spread- 
ing it  on,  and  took  to  tossing  it  about  in  great  glee,  not  caring 
where  it  went,  so  it  was  in  dashes  and  dots  and  streaks,  and 
lumps,  here  and  there. 

She  threw  whole  handfuls  on  the  flowers,  and  butterflies, 
and  little  worms,  and  toadstools,  and  grass  roots,  and  up  in 
the  sky  at  sunset,  and  against  mountain  peaks.  The  moun- 
tains laughed  at  this  sudden  whim  of  Mother  Nature,  opening 
their  mouths  wide,  and  got  whole  apronfuls  tossed  right 
down  their  throats. 

83 


84  Birds  of  Song  and  Story 

After  the  ocean  bottoms  had  been  peppered  with  the  gold, 
the  flowers  came  along  for  their  share;  the  buttercups  and 
dandelions,  and  goldenrod  and  sunflowers  and  jonquils,  and 
hosts  of  others. 

Last  came  the  orioles  and  finches  and  bobolinks,  and  many 
others,  each  in  turn  getting  a  spray  or  a  dash  or  a  grain  of 
the  yellow,  and  went  away  singing  about  it. 

But  certain  very  plain  little  birds  arrived  later,  when  the 
gold  was  almost  gone,  and  asked  Nature  to  give  them  "just 
a  little."  Now  she  had  but  a  handful  left.  Seeing  that  there 
wasn't  enough  to  go  around  if  each  had  a  little,  the  lady  birds 
said,  "Give  all  you  have  left  to  our  mates.  We  do  not  care 
for  gold.  We  will  follow  them  about  like  shadows  and  look 
well  to  the  nesting." 

Then  Nature  smiled  on  the  unselfish  lady  birds,  and  tossed 
all  she  had  left  of  the  yellow  stuff  straight  at  the  singers  who 
stood  before  her,  each  behind  the  other  in  a  straight  row, 
thinking  she  would  give  it  to  them  in  bits.  But  Nature  threw 
it  at  them  with  all  her  might,  laughing. 

Of  course  the  bird  in  front  got  the  biggest  splash,  and 
then  it  scattered  down  the  line,  until  the  last  few  had  only  a 
dust  or  two.  But  they  all  began  to  warble,  every  one,  each 
so  happy  that  he  had  a  little  gold. 

When  Nature  saw  that  the  bird  in  the  front  had  more  than 
his  share,  she  looked  very  keenly  in  his  face  and  said:  "My 
son,  you  must  go  everywhere,  all  over  the  cities  and  towns 
and  country  and  forests,  wherever  human  hearts  are  sad  and 
eyes  are  dim  with  tears.  And  you  must  warble  all  about 
summer  and  good  times  when  the  clouds  are  dark,  and  you 
must  be  fond  of  houses  where  people  dwell,  and  fields  and 
playgrounds  and  sheep,  and  keep  company  with  sorrow,  and 


Story  of  the  Summer  Yellowbird      85 

make  the  earth  glad  you  had  so  much  gold  about  you. 
And  you  can  stay  out  in  the  rain,  and  make  believe  the  sun 
shines  when  it  doesn't,  just  to  make  people  happier.  Shoo! 
little  summer  yellowbird,  that  is  your  name." 

And  the  bird  has  been  true  to  his  happy  mission  ever 
since,  going  about  here  and  there  and  everywhere  in  our  coun- 
try, taking  his  gold  with  him,  and  making  buttercups  and 
dandelions  grow  on  fir-trees  and  goldenrod  quiver  in  the 
glens  before  even  the  spring  crocuses  are  out.  In  the  green 
of  the  trees  he  looks  like  a  single  nugget,  and  when  he  runs 
up  and  down  a  branch  it  seems  as  if  somebody  had  spilled 
liquid  gold  above,  and  it  was  running  zigzag  in  and  out  of  the 
bark.  When  he  flies  in  the  blue  sky  he  seems  like  a  visible 
laugh,  for  nobody  can  see  the  dash  he  makes  and  not  smile. 
Many  a  breaking  heart  has  been  made  less  sad  by  the  sight 
of  him,  and  though  he  is  not  much  of  a  singer,  as  singing 
goes,  the  few  notes  he  has  are  cheery.  Better  to  speak  a  few 
glad  words  than  be  an  orator  and  scold. 

And  the  yellow  summer  bird  couldn't  scold  if  he  tried. 
The  more  he  warbles  gladness,  the  more  the  habit  grows.  In 
those  nooks  where  the  yellow  warbler  does  his  dress  act,  or 
molts,  the  children  catch  the  feathers  as  they  fall  from  his 
night  perch,  or  lie  in  the  ferns  and  toss  them  about  for  fun, 
to  see  them  glint  in  the  sunshine.  Little  girls  gather  them 
for  doll  hats,  and  make  startling  fashions  for  winter  head- 
dresses. 

All  right,  little  girls;  take  the  feathers  as  they  are  tossed 
to  you  by  the  merry  warbler,  without  a  single  twinge  of  con- 
science. They  are  yours  because  they  are  given  you.  You 
didn't  steal  them  nor  hire  a  big  boy  to  bring  them  to  you. 
Should  the  yellow  warbler  molt  a  pair  of  wings  by  mistake, 


86  Birds  of  Song  and  Story 

and  you  found  them  lying  in  a  bush  some  bright  autumn 
morning,  you  might  have  them  for  your  doll's  hat.  You 
might  even  put  them  on  your  own  little  head. 

But  to  rob  a  bird  of  its  gold,  to  tear  out  a  wing  or  a 
feather  to  flaunt  on  your  own  pitiless  head  or  the  cracked 
china  head  of  your  doll — that  would  be  a  different  thing. 

There  is  a  story  afloat  which  we  are  tempted  to  tell, 
though  it  isn't  a  very  happy  one,  and  is  not  believed  by 
everybody.  It  especially  concerns  girls  and  some  women. 

It  has  been  a  well-known  fact  for  centuries  that  birds  do 
hold  conventions  for  the  supposed  purpose  of  talking  over 
matters  that  concern  themselves. 

Not  long  ago,  some  time  in  the  century  that  has  just 
passed,  there  was  a  general  convention  of  American  birds 
held  in  the  backwoods  of  the  north.  There  were  represent- 
atives from  all  the  bird  families  that  wear  bright  feathers. 
The  purpose  of  the  assembly  was  for  discussion  of  different 
points  in  fashion,  more  particularly  of  the  head-dress  of 
women. 

Now,  at  this  point  in  the  story,  everybody  knows  exactly 
the  drift  of  the  "  moral"  which  is  as  sure  to  come  at  the  end 
as  the  yellowbird  is  sure  to  come  with  the  daffodils.  So  it's 
of  no  use  to  go  on  with  the  story,  since  the  moral  is  what 
story-tellers  usually  aim  at  from  start  to  finish.  'Listen  to  the 
summer  yellowbird  all  next  season,  and  when  he  gives  the 
word,  let  everybody,  big  and  little,  who  loves  to  wear  bird 
feathers  and  wings,  make  a  scramble  for  the  backwoods,  and 
you  may  hear  the  upshot  of  the  convention  for  yourself. 
In  the  mean  time,  should  crows  and  magpies  and  eagles  and 
vultures,  and  other  birds  of  strong  beak  and  furious  temper, 
steal  down  on  homes  and  peck  off  the  scalps  of  girls  and 


SUMMER  YELLOW  BIRD. 


Story  of  the  Summer  Yellowbird      87 

women  as  they  lie  in  their  happy  beds,  let  no  one  be  alarmed. 
Possibly  there  has  been  a  bird  convention,  and  the  big  birds 
of  sharp  claw  and  strong  beak  are  but  doing  as  they  are 
directed — and  it  is  "the  fashion"  for  them  to  do  it,  so  they 
are  quite  excusable. 

But  if  we  go  on  with  legends  and  imagined  bird  conven- 
tions, we  shall  never  get  to  the  bird  itself. 

The  bird  itself  is  the  summer  yellowbird,  the  dear,  delight- 
ful yellow  warbler,  whose  very  picture  you  see  before  you ; 
the  restless,  much-traveled  bird,  the  bird  who  may  not  look 
exactly  like  himself  when  his  coat  is  worn  and  tumbled,  but 
who  comes  by  a  new,  fresh  one  when  it  is  most  sorely 
needed.  More  dull  of  color  is  his  mate,  who  is  just  behind 
himself,  somewhere  in  the  tree  out  of  range  of  the  camera. 
The  two  are  never  far  apart  in  family  times;  where  one  flies 
there  goes  the  other,  happy  as  clams — if  clams  ever  are  very 
happy,  which  we  doubt — nesting  as  they  do  deep  down  in  the 
wet  sand,  and  never  seeing  a  flower  or  a  ripe  peach  or  a  rasp- 
berry all  their  lives.  However,  it  is  supposed  the  clam  knows 
something  akin  to  happiness,  for  he  is  always  where  he  wants 
to  be,  save  when  he  falls  into  the  pot,  and  here  is  where  we 
will  leave  him. 

Well,  the  yellow  warbler  is  at  home  all  over  North 
America,  migrating  from  place  to  place,  sometimes  in  twos 
and  threes,  sometimes  in  flocks;  at  times  journeying  straight 
on,  and  again  stopping  in  every  treetop  for  refreshments  sure 
to  be  ready.  Sometimes  the  birds  travel  by  night,  coming 
in  on  the  morning  train  like  any  travelers,  hungry  for  break- 
fast, and  the  first  we  know  of  their  arrival  is  a  quaint  little 
plea  for  something  to  eat.  Not  a  highly  melodious  note  that, 
but  curious  and  pleasing. 


88  Birds  of  Song  and  Story 

We  always  know  summer  is  coming  straight  away  when 
we  see  the  warbler,  just  as  we  know  winter  is  here  by  the 
first  snowflake.  And  as  soon  as  they  arrive  nesting  begins. 
For  that  very  purpose  they  come,  of  course.  As  to  the  nests, 
they  are  very  beautiful.  The  one  in  the  picture  must  have 
been  built  deep  in  the  woods,  where  grasses  and  dried  leaf 
tatters  were  plenty. 

But  there  is  no  set  pattern  to  go  by,  when  nests  are  made. 
That  is,  there  is  no  particular  building  material  allowed,  as 
with  the  swallows  and  some  others.  The  yellow  warbler  loves 
best  to  use  things  that  mat  together  readily,  so  the  nest  cup 
will  be  compact  and  thick,  like  a  piece  of  felt  cloth — so  differ- 
ent from  the  nest  of  the  grosbeak,  transparent  and  open,  like 
basketwork. 

To  get  this  cloth-like  substance,  the  birds  visit  the  sweet- 
fern  stalks  of  the  pasture  sides,  pulling  off  the  woolly  furze  bit 
by  bit,  until  a  beakful  is  gathered.  Then  they  make  a  trip 
to  the  brooks,  especially  in  early  spring,  where  they  wake  up 
the  catkins  on  the  pussy-willows  and  get  loads  of  the  soft  fur. 
Oh,  the  secrets  the  pussy-willows  know,  about  bird  and  bat 
and  butterfly  cocoon,  and  other  winged  people  that  frolic  in 
their  shadows !  They  could  tell  you  exactly  how  many  beak- 
fuls  of  pussy  fur  it  takes  to  weave  a  crib  blanket  for  a  yellow 
warbler's  nest.  Whole  nests  are  made  of  it  sometimes;  for 
the  warbler  loves  to  gather  one  particular  kind  of  material  for 
a  nest  if  she  comes  across  enough  of  it  in  one  spot.  That  is 
why  they  build  so  rapidly,  always  getting  it  done  in  a  hurry. 
They  love  big  loads  of  anything,  and  the  male  shows  his  mate 
where  she  can  find  it  with  the  least  trouble.  In  places  where 
sheep  pasture,  rubbing  against  trees  and  catching  their  sides 
into  thorns  and  sticks  at  every  turn,  the  yellowbird  gathers 


Story  of  the  Summer  Yellowbird      89 

the  wool.  She  likes  this  particularly,  as  it  is  light  and  clings 
to  itself,  and  she  can  carry  large  quantities  at  one  trip. 

The  happy  boy  or  girl  who  has  a  pasture  near  by  home  is 
rich.  There  is  nothing  like  a  pasture  to  study  nature  in, 
especially  birds.  A  wood  lot  with  trees  of  all  sizes  in  it,  a 
cranberry  bog,  a  huckleberry  patch,  a  maple  grove,  a  sweet- 
fern  corner,  with  snake  vines  running  at  random  among  young 
brakes — ah !  this  is  the  spot  of  all  the  world  for  nature-lovers 
and  birds.  One  can  part  the  bushes  and  find  a  warbler's  nest 
most  anywhere.  One  can  peer  up  into  the  treetops  and  find 
another.  In  the  treetops  the  nest  is  fastened  securely,  be  it 
where  the  winds  have  a  habit  of  blowing  through  their  fingers 
when  it  isn't  necessary.  But  birds  and  winds  are  fair  play- 
fellows and  seldom  interfere  with  one  another. 

Here,  in  southern  California,  we  have  little  wind,  if  any, 
in  the  days  of  the  summer  yellowbird.  So  nests  are  often 
set  in  a  crotch  without  a  bit  of  fastening. 

Two  years  ago  a  pair  came  to  the  house  grounds,  the  first 
we  had  seen  so  near.  We  wondered  what  they  would  nest 
with  first,  knowing  their  disposition  to  take  the  material  close 
at  hand.  We  knew  they  strip  the  down  from  the  backs  of 
the  sycamores  in  the  mountain  caftons,  and  gather  bits  of 
wool  fiber  from  tree  trunks,  or  ravel  lint  from  late  weed 
stems  in  the  arroyos.  So  we  anticipated  and  shook  loose 
cotton-batting  in  a  bush.  No  sooner  did  father  yellowbird 
spy  the  fluffy,  white  stuff  than  he  brought  madam,  and  she 
was  delighted.  This  cotton  could  be  pulled  by  beakfuls,  and 
an  afternoon  or  two  would  make  the  entire  nest. 

And  they  used  it,  not  getting  another  thing  save  some 
gray  hairs  from  a  lady's  head,  which  in  combing  had  escaped, 
and  were  saved  on  purpose  for  the  birds. 


90  Birds  of  Song  and  Story 

The  nest  was  placed  in  the  crotch  of  a  pepper-tree,  just 
out  of  reach  of  tiptoe  inquirers.  Just  one  pinch  of  cotton 
above  another  until  the  cup  was  deep  and  true  to  the  shaping 
of  the  mother's  breast,  she  turning  round  and  round  after  the 
manner  of  nest-builders.  Through  the  layers  ran  separate 
hairs  which  held  the  cotton  in  shape. 

It  was  a  beautiful  thing,  that  nest,  even  after  it  had  served 
its  purpose,  and  we  took  it  down  when  the  birds  had  flown. 
That  was  a  mistake  of  ours.  It  was  before  we  had  come  to 
know  it  is  better  to  leave  old  nests  undisturbed.  Many  birds 
love  to  return  the  coming  season  and  repair  last  year's  struc- 
tures. 

When  the  following  summer  came,  and  the  yellowbirds 
returned  from  their  winter  in  Mexico,  they  went  straight  to 
the  same  old  tree.  They  crept  up  and  down  the  trunk,  peer- 
ing into  all  the  crotches,  and  criticising  every  place  where  a 
nest  might  have  been.  Perhaps  a  single  speck  of  the  cotton 
had  remained  and  served  for  "a  pointer";  anyway,  the  birds 
located  the  exact  spot  and  went  to  work  without  more  ado. 

Exactly  as  though  they  remembered,  they  went  also  to 
the  supply  counter  where  we  had  placed  more  cotton  in 
advance  of  their  coming,  and  with  it  they  built  exactly  the 
same  white  nest  in  the  very  crotch  of  last  year's  happy  history. 

It  was  a  pretty  sight  to  see  the  mother  take  the  cotton. 
It  looked  sparklingly  white  against  her  breast  and  dripping 
from  her  beak.  And  all  the  time  she  was  arranging  it  in  the 
nest  to  suit  her  experienced  mind,  her  mate  sang,  warbling 
his  sympathy,  darting  through  the  leaves,  and  running  up  and 
down  the  branches.  This  running  up  and  down  the  boughs, 
so  like  their  cousins,  the  creepers,  makes  this  bird  look  grace- 
ful of  form  and  motion,  as  indeed  he  is,  anywhere  and  at 


Story  of  the  Summer  Yellowbird      91 

anything  he  does.  On  this  account  he  is  often  called  the  gem- 
bird,  his  brilliant  grace  suggesting  some  precious  and  coveted 
stone. 

These  warblers  of  ours  did  not  feign  lameness,  if  we  came 
near  the  nest,  as  some  of  the  family  are  said  to  do.  From 
daily  companionship  they  came  to  know  and  trust  us.  Had 
the  nest  been  a  little  lower  we  should  have  succeeded  in  tam- 
ing them  completely,  as  we  have  many  of  the  wild  birds  at 
nesting-time. 

We  have  left  the  nest  where  it  is  this  fall,  hoping  the  birds 
will  return  and  claim  it  another  year.  It  being  of  cotton, 
however,  and  having  no  threads  to  bind  it  in  the  crotch,  we 
think  the  winter  storms  will  wreck  it. 

It  has  been  claimed  by  good  authority  that  the  cow-bird 
loves  to  deposit  her  eggs  in  the  yellow  warbler's  nest.  But 
this  is  of  little  avail  to  the  cow-bird's  trick,  for  Madam 
Warbler  sees  the  point  and  the  egg  at  a  glance.  She  often 
builds  above  the  intruder,  imprisoning  the  alien  egg,  and  so 
leaves  it  to  its  fate.  A  single  bird  is  said  to  have  built  above 
the  cow-bird's  egg  three  times  in  succession,  as  the  intruder 
persisted,  until  there  were  four  floors  to  the  nest,  on  the  last 
of  which  the  mother  succeeded  in  laying  her  own  eggs.  If 
she  becomes  discouraged  by  the  persistency  of  her  guilty 
neighbor,  she  will  leave  the  spot  sometimes  and  search  for 
another  in  which  to  carry  on  her  own  affairs  in  peace. 

Of  the  seventy-five  or  more  species  of  this  warbler  family 
said  to  occur  in  the  United  States,  all  resemble  each  other  in 
points  enough  to  mark  them  as  warblers.  All  are  insect- 
eaters.  Some  are  called  worm-eaters,  others  bug-eaters. 
They  despise  a  vegetable  diet.  On  account  of  their  sharp 
appetite  for  grubs  and  larvae,  the  warblers  are  the  friends  of 


92  Birds  of  Song  and  Story 

all  who  live  by  the  growth  of  green  things  and  the  ripening 
of  fruits  and  grains.  With  few  exceptions  all  the  birds  are 
small  and  very  beautiful.  Theirs  is  the  second  largest  fam- 
ily among  our  birds,  ranking  next  to  the  sparrows. 

Some  of  the  warblers  live  near  streams,  playing  boat  on 
floating  driftwood,  hunting  for  insects  in  the  decaying  tim- 
bers, running  up  and  down  half-submerged  logs  atilt  on  the 
shore,  after  spiders  and  water-beetles. 

If  they  are  missed  we  may  be  sure  they  will  return  in  their 
own  good  time,  bringing  their  warble  with  them.  They  may 
only  stay  long  enough  for  breakfast  or  dinner,  taking  advan- 
tage of  their  stop-over  tickets,  like  any  travelers  of  note. 
Perhaps  the  strong,  courageous,  singing  males  of  the  party  of 
travelers  come  in  advance  of  the  females  and  young,  as  if  to 
see  that  the  country  is  ready  and  at  peace.  Nothing  can  be 
said  of  them  more  beautiful  and  fitting  than  this  quotation 
from  Elliott  Coues: 

"With  tireless  industry  do  the  warblers  defend  the  human 
race.  They  visit  the  orchard  when  the  apple  and  pear,  the 
peach,  plum,  and  cherry,  are  in  bloom,  seeming  to  revel 
among  the  sweet-scented  blossoms,  but  never  faltering  in 
their  good  work.  They  peer  into  crevices  of  the  bark,  and 
explore  the  very  heart  of  the  buds,  to  detect,  drag  forth,  and 
destroy  those  tiny  creatures  which  prey  upon  the  hopes  of  the 
fruit-grower,  and  which,  if  undisturbed,  would  bring  all  his 
care  to  naught.  Some  warblers  flit  incessantly  in  the  tops  of 
the  tallest  trees,  others  hug  close  to  the  scored  trunks  and 
gnarled  boughs  of  the  forest  kings;  some  peep  from  the 
thickets  and  shrubbery  that  deck  the  watercourses,  playing 
at  hide-and-seek;  others,  more  humble  still,  descend  to  the 
ground,  where  they  glide  with  pretty  mincing  steps  and 


Story  of  the  Summer  Yellowbird      93 

affected  turning  of  the  head  this  way  and  that,  their  delicate 
flesh-tinted  feet  just  stirring  the  layer  of  withered  leaves  with 
which  a  past  season  carpeted  the  sod.  We  may  see  warblers 
everywhere  in  their  season  and  find  them  a  continual  surprise." 

"  Sweet  and  true  are  the  notes  of  his  song: 
Sweet,  and  yet  always  full  and  strong; 
True,  and  yet  they  are  never  sad, 
Serene  with  that  peace  that  maketh  glad; 
Life!    Life!    Life! 
Oh,  what  a  blessing  is  life! 
Life  is  glad." 


CHAPTER  X 

THE   BLUEBIRD 

He  flits  through  the  orchard,  he  visits  each  tree, 

The  red-flowering  peach,  and  the  apple's  sweet  blossoms; 
He  snaps  up  destroyers  wherever  they  be, 

And  seizes  the  caitiffs  that  lurk  in  their  bosoms. 
He  drags  the  vile  worm  from  the  corn  it  devours, 

The  worms  from  their  webs  where  they  riot  and  welter; 
His  song  and  his  services  freely  are  ours, 

And  all  that  he  asks  is,  in  summer  a  shelter. 

WILSON. 

Yesterday  the  snow  melted  from  the  top  of  the  great  rocks 
in  the  woods;  the  evergreens  shading  the  rocks  lost  their 
white  load  that  had  been  bearing  down  the  branches  for  a 
month;  the  fences  straggled  their  lean  legs  wide  apart,  as  if  it 
were  summer,  only  the  tips  of  their  toes  resting  on  the  surface 
snow;  the  north  roof  of  the  barn  fringed  itself  with  icicles 
that  tumbled  down  by  noon,  sticking  up  at  the  base  of  the 
barn  in  the  drifts  head  foremost ;  the  top  dressing  of  white 
powder  that  for  weeks  had  adorned  the  woodpiles  sifted 
down  through  the  sticks  in  a  wet  scramble  for  the  bottom. 
All  around  the  farm  the  buntings  had  picked  the  snow  off, 
making  the  fields  look  as  if  brown  mats  were  spread  all  over 
the  floor.  But  yesterday  the  south  wind  puckered  up  its  lips 
and  blew  all  over  everything  in  sight,  and  the  brown  mats 
disappeared,  or  rather,  grew  into  one  big  one.  The  cows  in 
the  barn-yard  look  longingly  over  the  fence  toward  the  pas- 
ture, and  the  fowls  take  a  longer  walk  than  they  have  dared 
for  months,  away  out  in  the  garden,  where  lopping  brown 

94 


The  Bluebird  '95 

vines  and  nude  bush  stalks  bear  witness  to  what  they  have 
suffered. 

The  sun  shines  across  the  dooryard  as  it  hasn't  shone  for 
so  long,  making  a  thin  coat  of  mud  just  at  the  edge  of  the 
chips  and  around  the  doorsteps.  But  what  matters?  The 
children  run  in  and  out,  tracking  up  the  clean  floors,  taking 
their  scolding  with  good  cheer.  Isn't  spring  here?  and  don't 
they  hear  the  bluebird's  note  in  the  orchard? 

Run !  run !  and  put  up  some  more  little  boxes  on  the  shed 
and  the  fence-posts.  Clean  out  the  last  year's  nests  in  the 
hollow  trees.  Tell  the  old  cat  to  "keep  mum"  and  "lie 
low,"  or  she  will  be  put  in  a  bag  and  dropped  to  the  bottom 
of  the  very  first  hole  in  the  ice.  Cats  are  all  right  in  the  dead 
of  winter,  when  Old  Boreas  is  frantic  in  his  annual  mad  fit. 
She  can  sit  on  the  rug  and  purr  to  her  heart's  content;  but 
when  the  bluebirds  come,  if  she  bethinks  herself  of  the  fact, 
and  sharpens  her  claws  against  the  trunk  of  a  cherry-tree,  she 
would  better  look  out.  When  the  old  cat  sharpens  her  claws 
she  means  business,  especially  if  she  turns  her  head  in  the 
direction  of  the  orchard.  From  the  orchard  comes  a  soft, 
agreeable,  oft-repeated  note,  there  is  a  quivering  of  wings 
outspread,  and  "he"  is  here.  There  may  be  only  one  or  two 
or  six  singers.  They  have  left  the  lady  bluebirds  in  a  safe 
place  until  they  are  sure  of  the  weather.  If  the  outlook  be 
bad  to-morrow,  the  birds  will  retire  out  of  sight  and  wait  for 
another  warm  spell.  But  spring  is  really  here,  and  the  good 
work  of  the  sun  goes  on.  In  a  day  or  two  the  lady  birds 
appear  modestly,  of  paler  hue  than  the  males,  quiet,  but 
quick  and  glad  of  motion. 

It  is  the  time  of  sweethearts.  A  blue  beauty,  whose 
latest  coat  is  none  the  worse  for  winter  wear,  alights  near  the 


96  Birds  of  Song  and  Story 

mate  of  his  choice,  sitting  on  a  twig.  He  goes  very  near  her 
and  whispers  in  her  ear.  She  listens.  He  caresses  a  drooping 
feather,  torn  in  her  wing  as  she  dodged  the  brush  in  the  jour- 
ney. She  thinks  it  very  kind  of  him  to  do  so. 

Suddenly  an  early  fly  appears,  traveling  zigzag,  slowly, 
somewhere,  probably  on  some  family  business  of  its  own. 
Bluebird  spies  it  and  makes  for  it.  Not  on  his  own  account! 
Oh,  no!  He  snatches  it  leisurely  and  presents  it  to  his  love, 
still  sitting  on  the  tree.  She  thanks  him,  and  wipes  her  beak 
on  a  smaller  twig. 

So  little  by  little,  and  by  very  winning  ways,  does  this 
gentle  blue  courtier  pay  his  suit  of  Miss  Bluebird.  A  chance 
acquaintance  of  bluebird  sidles  up  to  the  same  branch  on 
which  the  two  have  been  sitting.  Bluebird  courtier  likes 
him  not;  he  will  have  no  rival,  and  so  he  drives  the  intruder 
away  as  far  as  the  next  tree,  returning  to  his  sweet  and  sing- 
ing a  low  warble  about  something  we  do  not  understand. 
Probably  he  is  giving  her  to  understand  that  he  will  "do  the 
right  thing"  by  her  all  the  time,  never  scolding  (as  indeed  he 
never  does),  and  looking  to  the  family  supplies,  and  in  all 
things  that  pertain  to  faithful  affection  will  prove  himself 
worthy  of  her.  She  consents,  taking  his  word  for  it,  and 
they  set  about  the  business  of  the  season. 

Now  they  must  hurry  or  the  wrens  will  come  and  drive 
them  out  of  house  and  home.  One  of  the  bluebirds  remains 
in  the  nesting-place,  or  very  near  it ;  for  if  the  house  be  empty 
of  inmates,  the  wrens  make  quick  work  of  pulling  out  such 
straws  and  nesting  material  as  have  been  gathered. 

If  the  people  of  the  farm  or  other  home  be  on  the  watch 
they  can  lend  a  hand  at  this  time.  Offered  inducements  by 
way  of  many  boxes  or  nesting-places,  with  handfuls  of  fine 


The  Bluebird  97 

litter,  will  attract  the  wrens,  and  the  bluebirds  will  be  un- 
troubled. It  may  be  that  a  cold  snap  will  come  up  in  a  driv- 
ing hurry  after  the  nesting  is  well  under  way.  In  this  event 
the  birds  will  disappear,  probably  to  the  deep,  warm  woods, 
or  the  shelter  of  hollow  trees,  until  the  storm  be  past,  when 
they  will  come  again  and  take  up  the  work  where  they  left  off. 

This  sudden  going  and  coming  on  account  of  the  weather 
has  always  been  a  mystery  to  those  who  study  the  bluebirds. 
Some  imagine  they  have  a  castle  somewhere  in  the  thickest 
of  the  woods,  where  they  hide,  making  meals  on  insects  that 
love  old,  damp  trees.  Caves  and  rock  chambers  have  been 
explored  in  search  of  the  winter  bluebirds,  but  not  a  bird 
was  found  in  either  place.  They  keep  their  own  secrets, 
whether  they  fly  far  off  to  a  warmer  spot,  or  whether  they 
hide  in  cell  or  castle. 

If  the  work  is  not  anticipated  by  human  friends,  and  the 
nesting-places  cleaned  out  in  advance  of  the  birds,  they  will 
tidy  up  the  boxes  themselves,  both  birds  working  at  it. 
What  do  they  want  of  last  year's  litter  with  its  invisible  little 
mites  and  things  that  wait  for  a  genial  warmth  to  hatch  out? 
House-cleaning  is  a  necessity  with  the  bluebirds.  When  the 
nest  is  done  it  is  neat  and  compact,  composed  of  sticks  and 
straws  with  a  softer  lining.  The  birds  accept  what  is  ready 
to  hajid,  making  no  long  search  for  material.  Being  neighbor 
to  man  and  our  habitations,  it  uses  stable  litter. 

The  three  to  six  pale  blue  eggs  contrast  but  slightly  with 
the  mother's  breast.  The  little  ones  grow  in  a  hurry,  for  well 
it  is  known  that  more  broods  must  be  attended  to  before 
summer  is  over.  Sometimes  the  nest  is  placed  at  the  bottom 
of  a  box  or  passageway,  and  the  young  birds  have  difficulty 
in  making  their  way  to  freedom.  The  old  birds  in  such  a 


98  Birds  of  Song  and  Story 

case  are  said  to  pile  sticks  up  to  the  door,  and  the  little  ones 
walk  up  and  out  as  if  on  a  ladder! 

The  mother  soon  takes  to  preparing  for  another  brood, 
and  the  father  assumes  all  the  care  of  the  young  just  out, 
leading  them  a  short  distance  from  the  mother,  and  teaching 
them  to  hunt  insects  and  berries.  The  little  ones  are  not  blue, 
as  any  one  may  see,  but  brown  with  speckled  breasts.  These 
speckled  breasts  of  young  birds  are  fashionable  costumes  for 
many  other  than  bluebirds.  They  remind  one  of  infantile 
bibs,  to  be  discarded  as  soon  as  the  young  things  eat  and 
behave  like  their  elders. 

When  the  persimmons  are  ripe  in  the  late  fall  whole  fami- 
lies of  bluebirds  collect  in  the  trees  for  the  fruit.  They  love 
apples  as  well,  but  apples  are  hard  unless  in  early  spring  after 
the  frost  has  thawed  out  of  them.  So  the  birds  take  the  per- 
simmons first.  It  is  at  this  time,  when  they  are  flitting  from 
tree  to  tree,  that  any  person  who  will  take  the  trouble  of 
hiding  underneath  and  keeping  still  will  catch  glimpses  of  the 
yellow  soles  of  the  bluebird's  feet.  The  legs  are  dark  above 
the  soles.  There  is  a  legend  about  this  that  is  pleasing  to 
know  and  half-way  believed  by  lovers  of  legends. 

And  one  need  not  be  ashamed  of  one's  fondness  for 
legends.  Legends  are  as  old  as  the  hills,  and  folk-lore  has 
preserved  them.  Now  that  ..the  printer  has  become  the 
guardian  of  such  things,  we  expect  a  legend  with  every  bird  and 
beast,  and  a  life  history  of  either  is  hardly  complete  without. 

Nearly  all  the  birds  of  North  America  are  entitled  to  a 
legend  through  the  nature-loving  Indians,  the  first  inhabitants 
of  our  country.  They  have  left  little  data,  but  enough  has  been 
gleaned  from  their  folk-lore  to  put  us  on  the  trail  of  many  a 
delightful  story.  Some  of  our  legends  may  be  of  recent  date, 


The  Bluebird  99 

but  all  have  a  fascination  of  their  own.  The  ancients  loved 
myth  and  weird,  fanciful  tales.  We  are  descendants  of  the 
ancients,  and  we  love  the  same  things. 

Once  upon  a  dreary  time  a  flood  of  water  covered  all  the 
earth.  The  land  birds  were  all  huddled  together  in  a  little 
boat,  twittering  to  each  other  of  a  " bright  to-morrow,"  as 
they  do  to  this  day.  As  the  storm  grew  harder  the  birds 
grew  cold,  not  having  any  clothes  up  to  that  date.  This  was 
the  first  rain  that  ever  came,  and  caught  many  things,  of 
course,  unprepared.  The  birds  had  been  of  naked  skin,  like 
the  lizards,  but  their  beaks  had  grown,  else  how  could  they 
have  been  twittering  to  one  another  of  a  bright  to-morrow? 
On  this  very  morrow  of  song,  the  boat  being  far  above  the 
mountain-tops,  a  single  ray  of  sunshine  appeared  at  a  crack 
in  the  cabin-house.  The  bluebird  always,  from  the  very 
first,  being  on  the  lookout  for  stray  bits  of  sunshine,  sprang 
to  the  spot,  which  was  just  big  enough  for  his  two  feet. 
When  the  sun  went  back  behind  the  clouds  it  was  found  that 
the  stray  bit  of  it  which  the  bluebird  had  hopped  upon 
remained  on  the  soles  of  his  feet.  That  is  the  way  the  blue- 
bird came  by  his  yellow  soles. 

And  he  came  by  his  blue  coat  in  this  wise:  When  the 
storm  had  spent  itself  the  bluebird  was  the  first  to  go  out 
of  the  boat,  straight  toward  heaven,  singing  as  he  went. 
When  he  got  to  the  blue  sky  he  stopped  not,  but  pushed  his 
way  straight  through,  rubbing  the  tint  of  the  sky  right  into 
his  uncolored  feathers,  that  had  grown  in  a  flash  when  he  left 
the  boat.  His  mate  followed  straight  through  the  hole  her 
lord  had  made,  but  of  course  she  did  not  get  so  much  blue 
as  he,  the  hole  being  rubbed  quite  dry  of  its  paint.  Ever 
since  the  first  flight  of  the  bluebird  somewhere  the  sun  has 


ioo  Birds  of  Song  and  Story 

shone  through  the  rift  he  made  in  the  sky  and  he  carries  hope 
of  spring  in  his  wake. 

The  bluebirds  are  good  neighbors,  never  quarreling  nor 
troubling  other  birds.  In  the  late  fall  his  note  changes  to  a 
plaintive  one,  as  if  he  were  mourning  for  the  dear,  delightful 
days  of  summer-time  and  nursery  joys.  It  is  now  that  he, 
with  his  large  family,  may  be  seen  on  weed  stalks  in  the  open 
country,  looking  for  belated  insects  and  searching  for  beetles 
and  spiders  among  the  stones. 

In  darting  for  winged  insects  the  bluebird  does  not  take 
a  sudden  flight,  but  sways  leisurely,  as  if  he  would  not  frighten 
his  treasure  by  quick  movements. 

Besides  this  particular  bluebird,  so  well  known  all  over 
North  America,  there  are  two  other  members  of  the  family, 
differing  only  slightly  in  coloring  and  similar  in  habits. 
These  are  the  Western  and  the  Arctic  bluebirds. 

The  bluebirds  are  the  morning-glories  of  our  country. 
They  are  companions  of  the  violet  of  spring  and  the  asters  in 
autumn.  They  belong  to  the  blue  sky  and  the  country  home 
and  the  city  suburbs.  When  the  English  sparrow  is  weary 
of  being  made  into  pot-pie  and  baby-broth,  it  will  go  on  its 
way  to  the  North  Pole  or  the  Southern  Ocean,  and  our  dar- 
ling in  blue  will  have  no  enemy  in  all  the  land. 

When  all  the  gay  scenes  of  the  summer  are  o'er, 

And  autumn  slow  enters,  so  silent  and  sallow, 
And  millions  of  warblers  that  charmed  us  before 

Have  fled  in  the  train  of  the  sun-seeking  swallow, 
The  bluebird,  forsaken,  yet  true  to  his  home, 

Still  lingers  and  looks  for  a  milder  to-morrow; 
Till  forced  by  the  horrors  of  winter  to  roam, 

He  sings  his  adieu  in  a  lone  note  of  sorrow. 

WILSON, 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  TANAGER  PEOPLE 

"  Magic  bird,  but  rarely  seen, 

Phoenix  in  our  forest  green, 
Plumed  with  fire,  and  quick  as  flame — 
Phoenix,  else  thou  hast  no  name." 

It  is  a  large  tribe,  of  numerous  species  in  America,  but  the 
scarlet  tanager  alone  may  well  be  termed  the  Red  Man  of  the 
forest.  Native  of  the  New  World,  shy,  a  gypsy  in  his  way, 
harmless  to  agriculture,  a  hunter  by  nature,  fascinating  to  all 
eyes  that  light  on  him. 

It  is  as  if  Nature  had  a  surplus  of  red  and  black  the  day 
she  painted  him,  and  was  determined  to  dip  her  brush  in 
nothing  else.  This  contrast  of  color  has  made  him  one  of  our 
most  familiar  birds.  But,  as  with  many  another  of  striking 
hue,  the  scarlet  tanager  has  an  indifferent  song.  Among  our 
flowers  like  the  scarlet  geraniums  and  hibiscus,  we  do  not 
look  for  the  fragrance  that  distinguishes  the  pale  violet  or 
wild  rose.  It  is  as  if  the  bright  tint  of  bird  or  blossom  is 
sufficient  of  itself,  and  nature  would  not  bestow  all  virtues 
upon  one  individual. 

Still  the  musical  qualities  of  this  tanager  are  not  to  be 
despised.  His  few  notes  may  be  almost  monotonous,  but 
they  are  pensive,  even  tender  when  addressed  to  his  dear 
companion,  for  whom  his  little  breast  holds  warm  affection. 
She,  too,  at  nesting-time,  utters  the  same  pensive  note, 
and  the  two  may  be  noticed  in  the  treetops,  whispering  to  one 
another  in  low  tones. 

IOX 


102  Birds  of  Song  and  Story 

It  is  not  for  his  song,  therefore,  that  we  seek  the  bird, 
but  hearing  the  song,  we  would  see  the  singer.  And  who 
can  blame  us?  We  love  the  deeper  tints  of  sunset  and  sun- 
rise, the  red  and  yellow  of  autumn  leaves,  the  red  glow  of  the 
prairie  fire,  the  tint  of  the  Baldwin  apple  and  the  sops  o'  wine. 
A  tree  of  dull  green  apples  in  the  orchard,  though  of  finer 
flavor,  will  be  neglected,  more  especially  by  the  "wandering 
boy,"  for  its  crimson-cheeked  neighbor  of  indifferent  relish. 
The  red  apples  of  the  naked  winter  bough,  left  on  purpose 
for  Jack  Frost  and  the  birds  to  bite,  are  said  to  allure  the 
latter  before  the  paler  fruit  of  the  next  tree  is  disturbed. 

Therefore,  when  a  nature-lover  wanders  into  the  woods  in 
dreamy  mood  and  the  scarlet  tanager  flits  above  him  amid  the 
green  of  the  foliage,  the  thrush  and  the  sparrow  are  forgotten. 

The  tanager  is  discreet  by  nature,  for  it  is  as  if  he  knows 
that  by  glimpses  only  is  he  best  appreciated.  Were  he  less 
retiring,  as  bold  in  habit  as  in  color,  sitting  on  the  roofs  and 
fence-posts,  swinging  the  nest  pendant  from  boughs,  like  the 
oriole,  he  would  be  less  fascinating.  But  the  tanager  is  sel- 
dom more  than  half  seen ;  he  is  detected  for  an  instant,  like 
a  flash,  and  disappears. 

It  is  with  the  eye  as  with  the  hand.  We  would  hold  in 
the  grasp  of  our  fingers  what  we  covet  to  touch  or  own. 
And  the  eye  would  retain  in  its  deep  fortress,  if  only  for  a  mo- 
ment, the  tint  it  feasts  on.  More  especially  is  this  the  case 
if  the  thing  we  would  hold  or  see  is  transitory  by  nature. 

So  when  we  sit  down  on  a  half-decayed  log  bedecked 
with  toadstools,  and  hear  the  note  of  a  scarlet  tanager  over- 
head, we  listen  and  are  moveless.  It  is  repeated,  and  if  we 
are  unacquainted  with  the  bird  we  may  think  him  to  the 
right  of  us.  Actually  he  is  on  the  left,  being  endowed  with 


SUMMER  TANAGER. 


The  Tanager  People  103 

the  gift  of  ventriloquism.  By  this  gift  or  attainment  the 
beautiful  creature  eludes  his  human  foes.  For  foes  the  tana- 
ger  surely  has,  the  more's  the  pity!  Not  content  to  adore 
the  bird  as  part  and  parcel  of  generous  nature,  there  are  those 
who  would  pay  their  homage  to  the  wings  only,  set  among 
feathers  and  plaited  straw.  Such  lose  the  fine  art  of  tender- 
ness. The  face  that  would  pale  at  sight  of  a  brown  mouse 
shines  with  pride  beneath  a  remnant  of  red  plumage  literally 
dyed  with  the  life-blood  of  their  original  owner. 

"  Angelina  has  a  hat 

With  wings  on  every  side; 
Slaughter  o'  the  innocents 
Those  pretty  wings  supplied. 
Sign  of  barbarity, 
Sign  of  vulgarity — 
That  winged  hat." 

Well,  let  Angelina's  hat  pass  for  what  it  is  worth  to  her. 
It  is  no  more  than  the  redbirds  have  had  to  submit  to  all 
their  life  history.  There  isn't  a  savage  tribe  but  has  made 
use  of  bright  feathers  for  dress,  either  in  skins  or  quills.  The 
dark-skinned  native  is  "dressed  for  church"  if  he  wear  a 
single  feather  tuft  in  his  scalp-lock,  or  a  frail  shoulder-cape  of 
crimson  breasts,  stripped  from  the  bird  in  the  bush. 

It  may  be  the  tanager  has  a  sort  of  dull  instinct  to  hide 
himself  on  this  account  in  the  deep  foliage,  deeming  it  the 
better  part  of  valor  to  keep  out  of  harm's  way  when  a  nature- 
lover  sits  on  the  toadstool-bedecked  log  to  watch  for  him. 

His  mate,  of  dull  greenish  yellow,  has  less  enemies  in  the 
disguise  of  admirers,  and  her  little  heart  has  no  call  to  flutter 
when  the  so-called  nature-lover  haunts  the  woods.  She  goes 
on  with  her  nest-building  on  the  arm  of  a  maple  or  even  lonely 
apple-tree,  making  haste,  for  well  she  knows  the  season  is 


104  Birds  of  Song  and  Story 

short  in  which  to  raise  their  single  brood.  By  the  middle  of 
August  they  must  be  off,  have  the  wings  of  the  young  grown 
sufficient  strength ;  and  yet  the  old  birds  only  arrived  from 
their  warmer  clime  in  the  South  when  May  was  half  over,  or 
later. 

Like  the  grosbeak's,  the  tanager's  nest  is  loosely  built  of 
twigs  and  stalks,  transparent  from  below,  as  if  ventilation 
were  more  necessary  than  softness.  The  dull  blue  eggs, 
spotted  with  brown  or  purple,  may  be  distinctly  seen  from 
beneath  when  the  sun  is  shining  overhead.  But  why  worry 
the  mother  bird  by  long  gazing?  She  is  in  great  distress. 
Were  the  ear  of  the  nature-lover  properly  tuned  he  would 
understand  her  to  be  saying,  "They're  mine,  they're  mine. 
I  beg,  I  beg.  Don't  touch,  don't  take." 

But  in  due  time  the  young  are  juveniles,  not  nurslings, 
and  they  leave  the  nest,  too  soon  the  worse  for  wear  on 
account  of  its  careless  build.  At  first  the  thin  dress  of  the 
young  is  greenish  yellow,  like  the  mother,  and  they  may  pass 
unnoticed  amid  the  late  summer  foliage.  The  male  juveniles, 
during  their  first  year,  somewhere  change  to  brighter  hues  in 
spots  and  dashes  of  red  and  black,  as  if  their  clothes  had  been 
patched  with  left-overs  from  their  fathers'  wardrobes.  The 
fathers  themselves,  before  they  fly  to  the  warm  South,  drop 
their  scarlet  feathers,  like  tatters,  amid  the  ferns  and  blue- 
berries, and  girls  pick  them  up  for  the  adorning  of  doll  hats. 
No  merrier  sight,  and  none  more  innocent  of  character,  than 
this  of  little  girls  searching  for  what  is  left  of  the  beautiful 
summer  visitor,  picking  up,  as  it  were,  the  shreds  of  his  mem- 
ory. These  scarlet  feathers,  together  with  those  of  the  sum- 
mer yellowbird,  placed  in  layers  or  helter-skelter  in  a  case  of 
gauze,  make  a  fairy  pillow  for  winter  times,  pretty  to  look  at. 


The  Tanager  People  105 

They  come  with  thistle-down  and  milkweed  tassels,  and 
sumach  droppings  and  maple  leaves,  and  the  first  oozing  of 
spruce  gum  in  the  woods.  Yes,  and  beechnuts  and  belated 
goldenrod,  and  the  first  frosts  that  nip  the  cheek  of  the  cran- 
berry in  the  bog. 

And  the  huckleberry  patch  is  littered  with  the  tiny  plumes, 
for  tanagers  love  the  huckleberries  that  leave  no  stain  on  their 
greenish  yellow  lips.  These  huckleberries  are  their  chief 
food  in  late  berry-time,  coming,  as  they  do,  when  the  juve- 
niles need  a  change  in  their  meat  diet  before  the  long  flight 
ahead  of  them.  Up  to  this  date  they  made  good,  square 
meals  from  fat  beetles  and  other  insects  big  enough  to  "pay 
for  catching."  That  bumblebees  and  wasps  are  endowed 
with  sharp  points  in  their  character  does  not  forbid  the  use  of 
them  for  tanager  food ;  though  it  is  presumed  that  the  stings 
are  either  squeezed  out,  or  the  insect  killed,  before  it  is  fed 
to  the  nestlings,  as  we  have  noticed  in  the  case  of  the  phoebes. 

In  these  late  summer  days  the  singer  punctuates  his  song 
often  and  long,  for  he  must  recuperate  for  his  autumn  journey. 
More  than  this,  he  must  protect  his  young  ones.  He  there- 
fore loses  the  shyness  of  spring,  and  follows  the  juveniles 
about,  feeding  them  and  teaching  them  to  shift  for  them- 
selves, and  protecting  them  with  word  and  sign.  His  whole 
care  is  for  his  family,  and  hard  is  a  cruel  world  indeed  whose 
human  inhabitants  can  molest  him.  His  scarlet  cloth  is  for- 
gotten. He  will  follow  his  young  even  into  captivity,  and 
there  feed  them  through  bar  or  window.  But  not  a  fascinat- 
ing prisoner  is  the  tanager;  one  grows  accustomed  to  his 
bright  coat,  and  as  it  is  seen  against  the  pane  in  winter-time, 
contrasting  with  the  whiteness  of  the  snow,  seems  to  reproach 
the  hand  that  imprisoned  it.  When  one  stops  to  think  of  it, 


io6  Birds  of  Song  and  Story 

scarcely  a  bird  in  captivity,  unless  it  be  the  canary  to  the 
manner  born,  gives  the  satisfaction  and  amusement  antici- 
pated. It  is  the  going  and  coming  of  the  wild  birds  that 
make  more  than  half  the  fun.  The  sudden  surprise  of  spring; 
the  reluctant  departure  of  autumn,  with  the  hope  of  inter- 
mediate days — there  is  charm  in  all  this  keeping  of  Nature's 
order. 

Well,  good  by,  sweet  scarlet  tanager.  Sing  us  back  your 
farewell  note  of  "Wait,  wait."  We  shall  see  you  again 
when  the  early  cherries  are  ripe,  if  not  sooner.  The  beetles 
and  bumbles  and  the  grasshoppers  will  be  watching  out  for 
you,  and  the  terrible  hornet  shall  double  his  armor-plate  to 
suit  the  strength  of  your  strong  beak.  It  will  be  of  no  avail 
tor  the  big  black  beetle  to  hide  beneath  the  iron  kettle  he 
carries  on  his  back,  and  the  bum  of  the  big,  yellow  bumble- 
bee will  serve  only  as  its  call-note,  while  the  broad  sword 
of  the  hornet  will  have  no  time  to  unsheath  itself  at  sight  of 
you.  Good  by,  tanager. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE   MEADOW-LARK 

Hark  !  the  lark ! 

SHAKESPEARE. 

Think,  every  morning  when  the  sun  peeps  through 
The  dim,  leaf -latticed  window  of  the  grove, 

How  jubilant  the  happy  birds  renew 
Their  old,  melodious  madrigals  of  love. 

And  when  you  think  of  this,  remember  too 
'Tis  always  morning  somewhere,  and  above 

The  awakening  continents  from  shore  to  shore, 

Somewhere  the  birds  are  singing  evermore. 

LONGFELLOW. 

Never  did  any  lark  "lean  its  breast  against  a  thorn"  and 
sing.  That  was  the  poet's  sorry  fancy.  Larks  are  not  in  the 
habit  of  leaning  their  breasts  against  anything  when  they  sing. 
They  stand  tiptoe  on  a  stout  grass  stem  or  a  fence-post  or  the 
highest  bough,  or  sing  as  they  fly,  or  warble  a  simple  ditty 
while  running  on  the  ground. 

It  is  on  account  of  this  habit  of  his,  always  having  his 
song  at  his  tongue's  end,  that  the  poets  have  made  the  lark 
the  subject  of  many  a  moral  romance.  "His  feet  are  on  the 
earth,  while  his  song  is  in  the  sky."  "High  or  low,  in  joy 
and  pain,  warm  or  cold,  wet  or  dry,  sing  like  the  lark."  And 
he  is  given  the  credit  of  "waking  up  the  morning,"  and  also 
of  "tucking  in  the  night,"  and  of  "blowing  the  noon  whistle," 
and  all  sorts  of  intermediate  duties.  He  doesn't  deserve  it 
all  more  than  other  birds,  however.  But  it  is  the  poet  who 

107 


io8  Birds  of  Song  and  Story 

sings  as  often  as  the  mood  takes  him.  If  it  be  the  lark  that 
inspires  him  at  this  particular  moment,  the  lark  is  his  theme. 
Or  if  it  be  the  raven  or  the  wren  or  any  other  winged  sub- 
ject, it  is  one  and  the  same  to  the  poet. 

But  country  people  are  all  poets.  In  their  hearts  they 
have  enshrined  the  meadow-lark,  because  he  is  very  near  them 
and  gives  them  little  cause  to  despise  him.  He  has  no  tooth 
for  fruit  or  grain,  unless  he  happen  to  stumble  on  it  unawares. 
He  seems  never  to  seek  it,  like  the  sparrows.  Resident  in 
many  places,  even  when  the  snow  is  up  to  his  knees;  in  the 
open  field,  in  the  margin  of  woods,  where  it  is  cool  and  grassy; 
in  damp  meadows  where  the  insect  people  have  their  summer 
home;  and  if  food  be  scarce,  even  in  the  barnyard  litter,  may 
the  meadow-lark  be  seen. 

Yes,  seen  and  heard!  Very  often  he  is  heard  and  not 
seen.  And  no  one  need  see  him  to  know  him.  His  song  is 
his  passport  to  everybody's  heart.  "There's  the  meadow- 
lark!"  exclaims  a  white-haired  man,  bent  with  much  listen- 
ing and  many  sorrows,  leaning  on  memory  and  his  strong 
cane  for  support.  And  his  eye  brightens,  as  no  youthful  eye 
can  shine,  at  sound  of  the  familiar  melody.  "Yes,"  he  says, 
"that  is  the  meadow-lark.  He's  somewhere  down  in  the 
open.  I  knew  him  when  I  was  a  boy." 

And  the  old  man,  who  is  a  boy  again,  walks  weakly  off  to 
the  nearest  field,  bent  on  flushing  the  comrade  of  his  child- 
hood. He  sits  feebly  down  on  a  log  and  rests.  It  is  the 
same  log  he  climbed  when  he  was  a  boy.  ft  was  not  hori- 
zontal as  long  ago  as  that,  but  perpendicular,  and  was  green- 
topped  and  full  of  orioles'  nests.  It'lies  prone  on  the  ground 
now,  long  ago  cut  straight  in  two  at  the  base.  And  it  has 
laid  there  so  long  it  has  grown  black  and  mildewed.  On 


The  Meadow-Lark  109 

account  of  this  mildew,  and  the  toadstools  that  have  ruffled 
and  fluted  and  bedecked  its  softened  bark,  the  insect  people 
have  made  their  home  in  it. 

The  old  man  sitting  there,  waiting  for  the  meadow-lark  to 
appear,  thinks  not  of  the  insect  people,  but  of  the  lark.  With 
the  tip  of  his  strong  cane  he  breaks  off  a  piece  of  the  serried 
bark,  and  a  spider  scurries  down  the  side  of  the  log  and  into 
the  grass.  He  chips  off  another  piece,  and  a  bevy  of  sow-bugs 
make  haste  to  tumble  over  and  "play  dead,"  curling  their  legs 
under  their  sides,  but  recovering  their  senses  and  scurrying 
off  after  the  spider.  The  cane  continues  to  chip  off  the  bark, 
and  down  tumble  all  sorts  of  wood  people,  some  of  them 
hiding  like  a  flash  in  the  first  moist  earth  they  come  to ;  others 
never  stopping  until  they  are  well  under  the  log,  where  experi- 
ence has  taught  them  they  will  be  safe  out  of  harm's  way. 
And  they  declare  to  themselves,  and  to  each  other,  that  they 
will  never  budge  from  under  that  log  until  it  is  midnight  "and 
that  wicked  meadow-lark  is  fast  asleep." 

Of  course  it  is  no  other  than  the  meadow-lark  the  insect 
people  are  running  away  from !  They  never  saw  the  old  man, 
nor  the  tip  of  his  cane  that  was  doing  all  the  mischief.  They 
know  their  feathered  foe  of  old.  What  care  they  for  his  song? 
He  is  always  on  their  trail.  So  when  the  old  man  sat  down 
heavily  on  the  log,  and  the  point  of  his  cane  jarred  the  loose 
bark,  out  tumbled  the  tenants,  expecting  each  of  them  to  be 
presented  with  a  bill.  But  the  bill  of  their  dreaded  enemy  is 
a  rod  or  two  away. 

He  has  had  his  breakfast  already.  It  was  composed  of  all 
sorts  of  winged  and  creeping  folk,  including  many  an  insect 
infant  bundled  all  up  in  its  swaddling-clothes  and  not  half 
conscious  of  its  fate. 


no  Birds  of  Song  and  Story 

It  was  for  this  very  purpose  that  he  was  up  so  early.  Of 
course  the  poets  did  not  take  his  breakfast  into  account  when 
they  wrote  verses  about  his  "rising  with  the  sun"  and  sing- 
ing with  "the  first  beam  of  day."  Nothing  in  the  world 
brought  him  out  of  bed  save  his  ever-present  appetite.  And 
the  farmers  have  cause  to  bless  their  stars  that  the  meadow- 
lark  has  an  appetite  of  his  own.  Also,  that  he  and  his  spouse 
make  their  nest  in  the  grass,  and  that  the  baby  larks  get 
about  on  the  ground  long  before  they  are  able  to  fly  fence- 
high. 

But  we  are  leaving  the  old  man  sitting  too  long  on  that 
damp  log.  He  may  catch  a  cold.  Of  one  thing  we  are  cer- 
tain, he  will  catch  sight  of  "that  rogue  lark"  if  he  waits  half 
an  hour.  He  used  to  wait  just  that  way  when  he  was  a  boy, 
though  to  keep  still  half  as  long  in  any  other  place  for  any 
other  purpose  would  have  been  a  physical  impossibility.  His 
specs  are  on  the  end  of  his  nose  now,  for  the  old  man  has 
good  far  sight,  and  he  squints  knowingly  at  a  bunch  of 
meadow-grass  three  rods  away.  Who  says  the  eye  of  the 
aged  grows  dim?  The  eye  of  this  particular  old  man  never 
shone  brighter  even  when  he  climbed  that  identical  elm  and 
came  near  losing  his  balance,  reaching  after  the  orchard 
oriole's  nest  that  swung,  empty,  just  at  tantalizing  distance. 
What  did  the  boy  want  of  that  nest?  He  just  wanted  to  get 
it,  that  was  all. 

And  what  does  the  old  man  want  of  the  meadow-lark 
caroling  at  the  base  of  bunch-grass  somewhere  ahead  of  him? 
Why,  he  just  wants  his  nest,  that  is  all!  Suddenly  up  pops 
the  bird,  right  out  of  the  waving  mound  he  was  "sure  to  be 
in,"  and  he  flies  low  to  the  nearest  stone  heap,  looking  the 
old  man  right  in  the  eyes  as  if  he  had  as  easy  a  conscience  as 


The  Meadow-Lark  in 

ever  reposed  in  the  breast  of  man  or  bird.  And  no  other  con- 
science has  the  meadow-lark,  to  be  sure.  It  is  the  same  con- 
science that  has  descended  to  him  through  his  ancient  family 
down  through  countless  generations. 

But  the  old  man  isn't  after  the  conscience  of  the  dear  bird. 
He  is  after  what  may  develop  at  the  base  of  that  grassy 
mound.  Over  toward  it  he  goes,  feeling  with  his  cane,  pok- 
ing the  buttercups  and  smartweed  and  yarrow  aside.  "Ha," 
he  laughs,  "I've  got  it,  Mary!" 

"Mary"  isn't  anywhere  in  sight;  but  the  old  man's  habit 
of  telling  "Mary"  everything  stands  by  him  like  any  good 
friend.  He  has  been  telling  her  everything  all  his  life,  and 
why  shouldn't  he  tell  her  about  this  lark's  nest,  the  very  latest 
discovery  of  his? 

No  deceiving  this  old  boy!  All  these  meadow-grasses, 
bent  low  and  forming  a  rather  awkward  archway  over  a  pos- 
sible corridor,  hold  secrets.  Out  darts  the  mother  lark  with 
many  a  sign  of  maternal  anxiety.  And  the  singer  discon- 
tinues his  morning  carol. 

The  old  man  kneels  very  stiffly  down  in  the  meadow  (he 
thinks  he  is  dropping  down  with  a  jerk,  in  boy  fashion)  and 
parts  the  grasses.  He  peers  in  and  sees  something.  He 
laughs,  parting  his  gums  wide,  exhibiting  to  a  black  and  yel- 
low bumblebee  a  solitary  tooth,  like  the  last  remaining  picket 
on  the  garden  gate  he  swung  on  when  he  was  a  boy.  Then 
he  rises  stiffly,  and  goes  as  fast  as  his  legs  can  carry  him, 
exactly  as  he  has  always  done  for  seventy-five  years,  more  or 
less,  straight  to  "tell  Mary." 

Just  as  he  reaches  the  doorstep  and  places  his  strong  cane 
against  the  corner,  preparatory  to  lifting  his  right  foot,  he 
turns  to  take  a  look  at  the  spot  he  has  just  left,  empty- 


ii2  Birds  of  Song  and  Story 

handed,  in  the  meadow.  He  shades  his  eye  from  the  nine- 
o'clock  sun,  and  sees  a  crouching  form  no  bigger  than  was  his 
own  at  the  age  of  ten.  He  tries  to  shout,  but  that  one  tooth 
standing  in  the  door  of  his  lips  like  a  faithful  sentinel,  or 
something  back  of  and  behind  it  in  the  years  that  are  gone, 
prevents  his  voice  from  reaching  farther  than  the  stone  wall  at 
the  garden's  edge.  "Mary,"  inside,  darning  hand-knit  stock- 
ings, hears  the  voice  that  is  dear  to  her,  lo!  these  many  years; 
and  she  does  the  shouting.  Somehow  her  voice  is  the  stronger 
of  the  two.  "Get  out  of  that  meadow,  boy!  No  stealing 
lark's  eggs  in  here." 

The  "boy"  slinks  back  down  to  the  road  fence,  and 
bethinks  him  of  another  meadow  "out  of  sight  of  folks," 
where  no  end  of  larks  are  singing. 

When  the  nesting-season  is  over — and  maybe  there  were 
a  couple  of  broods — the  larks  will  club  together  on  a  picnic 
excursion  and  wander  off  and  on,  nobody  knows  just  where. 
Perchance  they  will  turn  up  in  the  next  town  or  the  next 
county  or  the  next  state.  As  they  wander,  they  will  sing 
plaintively,  stopping  for  meals  where  meals  are  served.  Or 
they  will  chatter  all  together,  recognized  wherever  their  happy 
lot  is  cast,  loved  by  the  loving,  perhaps  eaten  by  the  sensual. 

It  will  be  remembered  that  the  lark  was  a  wedding  guest 
of  no  ordinary  office  at  the  marriage  of  Cock  Robin  and 
Jenny  Wren.  At  the  very  last  feature  of  the  beautiful  cere- 
mony the  ballad  runs  this  wise: 

"  Then  on  her  finger  fair  Cock  Robin  put  the  ring, 
While  the  lark  aloud  did  sing: 
'  Happy  be  the  bridegroom, 
And  happy  be  the  bride; 
And  may  not  man  nor  bird  nor  beast 
This  happy  pair  divide.'  " 


The  Meadow-Lark  113 

After  the  cruel  blunder  was  done,  which  was  the  fault  of 
neither  bird  nor  beast  nor  man  (by  intention),  and  the  question 
as  to  who  should  act  the  part  of  clerk  at  the  last  sad  burial 
rites  was  raised,  it  was  the  lark  who  volunteered,  though  it  is 
to  be  supposed  that  his  heart  was  breaking. 

"Who  will  be  the  clerk? 
'  I,'  said  the  lark, 
'  If  it's  not  in  the  dark, 
And  I  will  be  the  clerk.'" 

Now,  why  the  lark  should  object  to  doing  this  very  solemn 
service  for  his  dead  friend  the  robin,  if  it  should  happen  to  be 
"dark,"  we  cannot  tell.  Perchance  he  really  couldn't  act  the 
part  of  a  clerk  at  night  on  account  of  his  family  having  been 
forbidden,  centuries  and  centuries  ago,  to  lean  any  more 
against  the  moon  in  the  first  quarter.  It  used  to  be  a  habit 
of  theirs  to  sing  that  way,  and  that  is  how  they  came  by  the 
crescent  on  their  breast.  The  gods  made  up  their  minds  that 
if  all  the  larks  in  the  world  took  to  leaning  their  breasts  against 
the  moon  all  at  one  time  it  would  result  in  toppling  the  old 
moon  over.  The  meadow-lark  being  the  last  of  the  family  of 
larks  to  obey  the  comrrfand,  flew  away  with  the  shadow  of  the 
crescent  under  his  throat.  Anybody  can  see  it  for  himself 
in  plain  sight.  So,  as  intimated,  the  lark  at  the  funeral, 
remembering  that  he  couldn't  have  a  moon  to  lean  against, 
refused  to  do  the  part  asked  of  him,  if  the  ceremony  occurred 
after  dark.  Though,  come  to  think  of  it,  this  legend  about 
the  crescent  must  be  of  very  recent  date,  for  the  lark  of  the 
ballad  could  have  been  no  other  than  the  English  skylark, 
which  has  no  crescent.  But  the  moon  has  a  crescent,  and  so 
has  our  meadow-lark,  and  so,  if  there  be  a  grain  of  truth  in 


ii4  Birds  of  Song  and  Story 

the  ballad  and  the  legend,  our  dear  singer  must  have  been 
spirited  across  the  sea  for  that  special  occasion. 

Our  interest  in  this  old  ballad  of  Cock  Robin  would  have 
died  before  it  began  had  we  not  been  informed  of  the  whole 
affair  with  such  precision  as  to  details. 

For  the  benefit  of  those  who  doubt  the  event  having  ever 
occurred  "within  the  memory  of  man"  and  birds,  we  will 
refer  our  readers  to  the  inscription  on  a  certain  very  old  tomb- 
stone in  Aldermary  Churchyard,  England.  If  they  do  not 
find  a  single  reference  to  Cock  Robin  and  the  lark  which 
acted  the  part  of  clerk  at  the  funeral,  it  will  be  because  they 
have  left  their  specs  at  home.  Is  is  not  a  well-known  fact 
that  tombstones  tell  no  falsehoods? 

Thinking  all  these  things  very  calmy  over,  it  occurs  to  us 
that,  after  all,  any  other  of  the  singing  birds  we  have  men- 
tioned in  this  book  might  be  as  well  fitted  to  act  the  part 
allotted  to  the  lark  as  that  bird  himself.  The  plain,  every- 
day facts  are,  it  was  a  poet  who  reported  the  affair,  and  he 
was  at  his  wit's  end  to  find  a  word  to  rhyme  with  "clerk," 
and  a  clerk  he  must  have  at  a  funeral  of  that  date.  Now  the 
English  tongue,  wherever  it  is  spoken,  is  a  curious  language. 
It  seems  ready  made  to  suit  any  figure,  stout  or  slim,  big  or 
little.  The  poet  knew  that  any  person  of  good  sense,  accus- 
tomed to  rhyming,  would  read  the  word  "clerk"  to  sound 
like  "dark."  Hence  the  immortal  rhyme, 

"'I,'  said  the  lark, 
'  If  it  be  not  in  the  dark, 
And  I  will  be  clerk.'  " 


CHAPTER  XIII 

SKYLARK  (HORNED  LARK) 

"  Under  the  greenwood-tree, 

Who  loves  to  lie  with  me, 

And  tune  his  merry  note 

Unto  the  sweet  bird's  throat; 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither; 

Here  shall  he  see 

No  enemy 
But  winter  and  rough  weather." 

In  Shakespeare's  play,  "As  You  Like  It,"  scene  v., 
Amiens,  a  close  student  of  nature,  is  made  to  sing  this  song. 

It  probably  caused  his  companion,  Jaques,  to  remember 
the  skylark  of  his  own  boyhood,  for  he  besought  Amiens  to 
"sing  it  again."  But  Amiens  argued  with  his  friend  that  it 
would  make  him  "melancholy."  However,  he  sang  again, 
and  it  is  supposed  that  the  two  lived  over  the  days  of  their 
boyhood,  when  they  lay  on  the  grass  under  the  greenwood- 
tree,  just  on  the  edge  of  a  corn-field,  and  listened  to  the  skylark 
tuning  his  merry  note  in  his  own  sweet  throat. 

Dear  to  the  heart  of  English  boys  and  other  people  is  the 
skylark,  on  account  of  which,  and  for  the  reason  that  British- 
ers of  any  age  may  like  to  meet  an  old  friend  should  they 
chance  to  take  up  this  book  in  their  travels,  we  are  giving  a 
chapter  to  this  bird.  In  the  play,  Jaques  and  Amiens  sing 
later  together  all  about  their  favorite  lark  (it  is  presumed) ; 

"  Who  loves  to  live  i*  the  sun, 
Seeking  the  food  he  eats 
And  pleased  with  what  he  gets," 

"5 


n6  Birds  of  Song  and  Story 

Surely  the  skylark  loves  to  live  i'  the  sun,  for  he  is  always 
in  the  open,  summer  and  winter,  as  if  he  would  be  sure  to  not 
miss  a  single  sunbeam.  As  is  the  case  with  most  of  our  birds 
who  dwell  or  nest  near  our  homes,  the  skylark  does  not  seek 
man  for  his  own  sweet  sake,  but  for  the  sake  of  what  the  farm 
holds;  though  no  marauder  is  this  lark,  for  it  eats  ground 
insects  nearly  the  whole  year — crickets,  and  beetles,  and 
grubs,  and  worms,  and  little  folk  who  see  no  further  than 
their  noses.  To  be  sure,  in  late  fall,  after  the  farmer's  buck- 
wheat and  other  grains  are  ripened  and  mostly  harvested,  the 
larks  visit  the  fields  in  flocks  to  gather  up  the  crumbs  and 
grow  fat  on  the  change  from  a  meat  to  a  vegetable  diet. 

This  growing  fat,  by  reason  of  his  generous  diet  in  late  fall, 
just  before  the  snows  come,  serves  the  same  purpose  as  does 
the  fattening  of  bear  just  before  winter.  The  snow  covers 
lark's  "meat  victuals"  all  up,  and  the  birds  must  fall  back  at 
times  on  their  stores  laid  by  under  their  skin  for  this  very 
season.  Though  they  do  not  hibernate,  they  still  have  use  for 
their  fat.  So  has  the  gunner,  and  the  people  with  snares 
ready  to  set  for  the  unwary  and  hungry  birds. 

A  recent  writer,  commenting  on  this  autumn  sport  of  the 
Englishman,  excuses  their  seemingly  wanton  destruction  by 
observing  that  "were  they  not  thus  taken,  large  numbers  would 
doubtless  meet  natural  death  in  their  autumn  flights."  To 
quote  Shakespeare  again,  "Oftentimes,  excusing  of  a  fault 
doth  make  the  fault  the  worse." 

There  seems  to  be  a  sort  of  inconsistency  in  the  fact  that, 
from  earliest  times,  the  human  family  have  been  guilty  of 
eating  what  most  they  love — or  what  most  they  do  declare 
they  love.  The  flavor  of  the  flesh  of  a  bobolink  or  skylark 
is  hardly  out  of  the  mouth  before  the  tongue  takes  to  praising 


Skylark  117 


the  favorite  bird  with  a  psalm  or  hymn ;  in  due  time  the  poet 
and  singer  bethinks  him  of  his  annual  feast  of  flesh,  and  his 
spiritual  appreciation  grows  thin. 

We  are  thankful,  in  spite  of  all  this,  that  the  poets  and 
singers  sing  on.  They  have  immortalized  the  skylark  of 
Europe  as  no  other  known  bird  is  immortalized. 

Superstition  claims  the  bird  as  peculiarly  its  own.  Do 
not  its  prophets  divine  things  mysterious  and  darkly  subtle 
by  the  skyward  flight  of  the  bird  ?  And  its  song !  Any  priest 
of  the  craft  may  read  in  its  varying  notes  all  sorts  of  fortunes 
to  people  and  clans. 

And  the  eggs  of  the  skylark !  Were  they  not  speckled  and 
streaked  by  passing  night  winds  in  the  shape  of  fairies  with 
garden  gourds  filled  with  the  ink  juice  of  the  deadly  night- 
shade berries?  Were  the  skylark's  eggs  white  they  would  be 
"  moon-struck, "  and  the  hatchlings  would  sing  the  song  of  the 
night-owl.  In  spite  of  the  speckled  eggs  and  the  usual  grassy 
cover  of  the  nest,  these  are  too  often  the  successful  object  of 
the  prowling  boy.  Though  it  must  be  confessed  that  in  this, 
as  in  the  case  of  the  robbery  of  other  birds,  it  is  not  always  the 
original  finder  of  the  nest  who  is  guilty  of  theft.  Shakespeare 
was  aware  of  this  fact,  for  in  "Much  Ado  About  Nothing" 
he  makes  Benedick  speak  of  "the  flat  transgression  of  a 
school-boy,  who,  being  overjoyed  with  finding  a  bird's  nest, 
shows  it  his  companion,  and  he  steals  it." 

The  mistake  was  in  "showing  it  his  companion."  Though, 
should  the  companion  happen  to  be  a  girl,  he  need  have  no 
fear.  The  nest  will  be  undisturbed  next  time  he  visits  the  spot. 

For  eight  months  of  the  English  year  does  the  skylark 
sing,  prodding  the  lazy,  comforting  the  sorrowful,  accusing 
the  guilty,  making  more  merry  the  glad.  On  account  of  its 


n8  Birds  of  Song  and  Story 

ever-circling  upward  flight,  the  bird  is  believed  to  hold  con- 
verse with  heaven.  In  captivity  it  is  supposed  to  be  "  longing 
for  the  sky"  when  it  flings  itself  against  the  roof  of  its  cage. 
To  protect  it  against  harm  in  this  last,  soft  cloth  is  sometimes 
used  for  the  cover  to  its  home. 

In  winter,  when  the  skylarks  cover  the  sandy  plains  of 
Great  Britain,  they  have  but  a  single  cry,  having  laid  by 
their  songs  with  which  to  "wake  the  spring";  or  it  may  be 
with  them  as  in  the  case  of  our  bobolinks — after  a  diet  of  ripe 
grains  they  are  "too  full  for  utterance."  But  when  spring 
is  actually  astir,  then  are  the  larks  abroad  in  the  sky.  Francis 
Rabelais,  as  long  ago  as  the  fourteenth  century,  loved  the 
English  spring  for  the  sake  of  the  skylark,  and  the  thoughts 
the  bird  inspired  in  him.  Having  no  appetite,  apparently, 
for  the  bird  when  he  is  fattened  for  eating,  the  poet  longed 
for  larks  in  the  act  of  singing,  as  if,  could  he  hold  one  of  them 
in  his  hand  when  it  was  articulating,  he  might  come  by  its 
written  song,  as  the  telegrapher  reads  the  scroll  as  it  unwinds. 
But  he  wouldn't  be  content  with  one  bird,  oh,  no! — if  ever 
the  "skies  should  fall"  he  made  up  his  mind  to  "catch  larks" 
by  the  basketfuls.  But  the  heavens  never  were  known  to 
fall  in  lark-singing  time,  and  the  poet  is  long  since  under  the 
sod  with  the  skylarks  nesting  above  him. 

To  be  like  a  singing  bird  has  been  the  longing  of  human 
hearts  in  all  ages;  as  if  we  realize  that  there  is  medicine  in 
song  as  in  nothing  else — medicine  to  the  singer.  And  so 
there  is.  No  higher  compliment  could  be  paid  by  a  poet  to 
the  memory  of  his  friend  than  the  following,  dated  in  the 
seventeenth  century.  There  is  a  happy  lesson  of  work,  and 
good  nature,  and  lightness  of  heart  in  a  trying  occupation  too 
good  to  lose. 


Skylark  119 


"  There  was  a  jolly  miller  once, 

Lived  on  the  River  Dee; 
He  work'd  and  sung  from  morn  to  night, 
No  lark  more  blithe  than  he." 

Several  attempts  to  introduce  the  English  skylark  into 
America  have  been  made,  with  no  satisfactory  results.  It  is 
hoped  to  some  day  have  them  feel  at  home  on  the  Pacific 
coast,  where  the  varying  moist  and  dry  climates  of  north  and 
south  would  give  them  the  pleasures  of  their  natural  migra- 
tions. But  although  we  may  never  have  the  skylark  with  us, 
we  have  its  relative  in  our  horned  or  shore  larks.  In  its 
habits  it  resembles  its  lark  kindred  in  the  Old  World,  singing 
on  the  wing,  nesting  on  the  ground,  feeding  on  the  same 
food,  walking  rapidly,  reserving  flight  as  the  last  resort  when 
pursued. 

The  horned  lark  is  so  named  on  account  of  a  little  tuft  of 
feathers  on  each  side  of  the  forehead,  which  it  raises  or  lowers 
at  pleasure.  It  nests  in  the  North  very  early,  even  before  the 
snow  is  all  melted,  and  brings  off  two  or  more  broods  in  a 
season.  In  the  autumn  it  exchanges  its  beautiful  song  for  a 
good  appetite,  and  fattens  itself  on  grains  and  berries  in  antici- 
pation of  possible  winter  hunger.  It  may  be  seen  all  over 
North  America  at  some  season  of  the  year,  in  fall  and  winter 
in  flocks. 

In  California  we  have  the  Mexican  horned  larks,  which 
cover  the  mesas  and  rise  reluctantly  in  large  numbers  when 
surprised.  They  love  to  follow  the  open  country  roads,  run- 
ning out  of  the  track  while  we  pass,  but  returning  as  soon  as 
we  have  gone  our  way.  On  rainy  days — which,  by  the  way, 
are  the  best  of  bird  days — we  have  taken  our  umbrellas  and 
strolled  out  to  the  flat  lands  on  purpose  to  see  these  larks  in 


120  Birds  of  Song  and  Story 

their  greatest  numbers.  They  will  fly,  with  a  whirr  of  sound, 
and  alight  almost  at  our  feet,  to  repeat  the  act  for  a  mile  if 
we  choose. 

In  midsummer  they  are  seen  in  the  vicinity  of  their  nest- 
ing-places, standing  in  rows  under  fences  or  plants  with  mouths 
wide  open,  seeming  to  choose  hot  sand  to  flying  straight  across 
the  short  desert  to  mountain  retreats.  The  horned  larks, 
wherever  seen,  suggest  contentment,  and  pleasure  in  life  as 
they  find  it. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

BOBOLINK 

"June!  dear  June!    Now  God  be  praised  for  June." 

'Nuff  said;  June's  bridesman,  poet  o'  the  year, 

Gladness  on  wings,  the  bobolink  is  here; 

Half  hid  in  tiptop  apple-blooms  he  sings, 

He  climbs  against  the  breeze  with  quiverin'  wings, 

Or,  givin'  way  to  *t  in  a  mock  despair, 

Runs  down,  a  brook  o*  laughter,  through  the  air. 

LOWELL. 

He  was  just  a  bird  to  start  with,  half  blackbird  and  the 
other  half  sparrow,  with  some  of  the  meadow-lark's  ways  of 
getting  along.  As  to  the  naming  of  him,  everybody  settled 
that  matter  at  random,  until  one  day  he  grew  tired  of  being 
called  nicknames  and  named  himself. 

Think  of  having  " skunk-blackbird"  called  after  a  fellow 
when  he  deserved  the  title  no  more  than  half  a  dozen  of  his 
feathered  friends!  He  could  never  imagine  what  gave  him 
the  disagreeable  epithet,  unless  it  be  his  own  individual  hatred 
for  the  animal  whose  name  clung  to  him  like  mud. 
•  To  be  sure,  the  coat  of  the  bird  was  striped,  something 
like  that  of  the  detestable  beastie;  but  so  were  the  coats  of 
many  other  birds,  and  he  could  never  tell  why  he  should  be 
called  a  blackbird,  either. 

True,  he  loved  the  marshes  for  personal  reasons ;  but  who 
has  seen  a  blackbird  twist  its  toes  around  a  reed  stalk  and 
sing  like  mad? 

So,  as  we  said,  he  named  himself,  constituting  himself  a 

121 


122  Birds  of  Song  and  Story 

town  crier  on  behalf  of  his  own  concerns.  "Bobolink!  bobo- 
link!" As  often  as  the  blackbird  attempted  to  talk  of  him- 
self, bobolink  chimed  in  and  drowned  every  other  note.  And 
he  kept  it  up  for  two  or  three  months,  until  everybody  under- 
stood that  he  had  given  himself  a  proper  name.  And  each, 
year  he  returns  to  remind  the  skunk  and  blackbird  that  he  is 
no  other  than  himself,  and  to  assure  people  that  he  is  deserv- 
ing of  an  original  name,  whatever  else  may  be  said  of  him. 

But  the  skunk  never  has  quite  forgiven  the  bobolink  his 
resentment  of  the  name,  for  the  ugly  little  creature  haunts 
the  bird  in  marsh  and  meadow,  watching  for  the  young  bobo- 
links to  get  big  enough  for  eating,  exactly  as  the  bobolink 
waits  for  the  dandelion  seeds  to  get  ripe  for  his  dinner.  But 
dandelion  seeds  and  little  baby  bobolinks  are  two  different 
sorts  of  victuals;  and  father  bobolink,  swaying  on  his  weed 
stem,  wishes  skunks  were  not  so  big,  so  he  could  turn  on  the 
whole  family  and  devour  them  as  he  does  the  bumblebees  in 
the  next  stone  heap. 

It  is  of  no  use  wishing,  for  the  old  feud  between  the  hated 
animal  and  the  coveted  bird  is  still  on.  And  skunk  knows 
very  well  how  to  get  the  best  of  the  bobolink.  Bobolinks  see 
better  by  daytime,  and  besides  they  are  tired  out  with  singing 
all  day  long,  and  they  sleep  like  Christians  all  night.  It  i$ 
then,  when  the  moon  is  little,  and  the  flowers  have  closed 
their  eyes,  and  the  grass  stems  are  growing  silently  in  the 
dew,  and  the  cicada  is  absorbed  in  the  courting  of  his  sweet- 
heart— ah!  it  is  then  that  skunk  walks  abroad,  sniffing.  Tail 
straight  out  behind,  gently  swaying  as  he  goes,  nose  well 
pointed  toward  the  nearest  grass  tufts,  thoughts  intent  on 
supper,  and  alas!  baby  bobolinks  quietly  sleeping.  Skunk 
may  take  in  the  mother  as  well,  while  she  broods,  she,  no 


Bobolink  123 

doubt,  having  a  violent  attack  of  nightmare,  could  she  but 
live  to  tell  her  mate  about  it. 

Yes,  indeed !  poor  bobolink  has  his  trials,  and  he  is  enti- 
tled to  all  the  sweet  melody  of  his  family  to  help  him  rise 
above  them.  When  he  is  tired  of  New  England  polecats  and 
takes  a  run  down  South,  it  is  but  to  meet  his  other  enemy, 
the  opossum.  And  he  might  as  well  be  given  the  name  of 
opossum-bird — for,  like  the  skunk,  the  opossum  loves  the  still, 
dark  night — and  fat  old  bobolinks. 

Should  the  bobolink  and  his  juvenile  family  take  to  a  tree 
for  a  roosting-place,  provided  his  supper  has  not  made  his 
body  heavier  than  his  wings  are  strong,  opossum  will  climb 
after  him. 

So  poor  bobolink  is  pursued  on  every  hand.  Bird  of  the 
ground  is  he,  everywhere;  he  is  born  on  the  ground  and  dies 
on  the  ground,  usually,  for  the  ground  is  his  dinner-table. 
His  human  friends  (or  foes)  take  him  pitilessly  at  his  meals 
when  he  is  too  full  for  utterance  or  quick  flight.  And  these 
human  friends  (or  foes)  dine  upon  him  until  they  in  turn  are 
too  full  for  utterance. 

Oh,  the  bobolink  has  a  hard  time!  But  still  he  named 
himself  out  of  the  glee  of  his  heart,  and  he  sings  a  fourth  part 
of  the  year  as  only  a  bobolink  can  sing. 

You  can  make  almost  anything  you  please  of  the  song. 
Children  sit  on  the  fence-rails  and  mimic  him,  and  "guess" 
what  he  says,  and  cry,  "Spink,  spank,  spink,"  "meadow 
wink,  meadow  wink,"  "just  think,  just  think,"  "don't  you 
wink,  don't  you  wink,"  "want  a  drink,  want  a  drink?" 
Coming  back  to  his  real  name,  "bobolink,  bobolink,"  as  if, 
after  all,  that  were  the  nearest  right. 

Right   under  the  swinging  bare  feet  of  the  children,  in  a 


124  Birds  of  Song  and  Story 

dark,  cool  nest,  Mother  Skunk  is  fast  asleep,  making  up  for 
last  night's  carousals  among  the  bobolink  nests. 

June  would  be  no  June  without  the  bobolinks,  where  they 
are  expected,  and  so  ever  so  many  things  get  ready  for  them. 
For  what  other  purpose  than  for  the  bobolinks  do  the  ground- 
beetles  air  themselves,  and  the  crickets  get  out  their  violins, 
and  the  gray  spiders  spin  yarn  on  their  doorsteps?  Of  course 
it  is  all  for  purposes  of  their  own,  since  nobody  knows  that 
beetles  and  crickets  and  spiders  particularly  love  to  be  gob- 
bled up  by  a  bobolink.  But  it  is  one  and  the  same  to  the 
bobolink  family,  who  must  have  food  of  some  sort.  And  they 
couldn't  at  this  season  of  the  year,  and  under  the  peculiar 
conditions  of  family  life,  get  along  reasonably  well  without 
meat  of  some  sort.  Later  on,  when  the  dandelions  bethink 
themselves  to  turn  into  round  white  moons  that  fly  away  in 
the  breeze,  and  the  wild  oats  lift  their  shoulder-capes,  the 
bobolinks  can  turn  vegetarians. 

Shy,  suspecting  little  birds,  sharp  of  eye,  fresh  from  a 
winter  tour  in  the  West  Indies,  they  come  exactly  when  they 
are  expected.  They  never  disappoint  people.  The  very 
earliest  to  arrive  may  sing  their  " Don't  you  wink,  don't  you 
wink,"  on  April  1st.  But  bobolink  makes  no  April  fool  of 
himself  or  anybody  else,  unless  it  be  Master  Skunk  in  his 
hollow  tree,  who  rubs  his  eyes  at  the  first  word  from  Robert 
o'  Lincoln.  But  the  male  birds  have  come  in  advance  of  their 
women  folk,  and  roost  high  and  dry  out  of  reach  of  four- 
footed  marauders.  It  is  as  if  the  mother  bobolinks  would 
be  quite  sure  the  spring  storms  are  over  before  they  put  them- 
selves in  the  way  of  housework. 

Until  their  mates  arrive,  the  male  birds  go  on  a  lark,  sail- 
ing low  over  meadows,  singing  as  they  sail,  each  outdoing 


Bobolink  125 

his  friend,  sitting  now  on  a  fence-post,  and  now  on  the  bud- 
ding branch  of  a  maple  or  elm,  calling  their  own  names,  and 
adding  whole  sentences  or  stanzas  in  praise  of  the  Middle  West 
country,  and  of  New  England  in  particular. 

Then  comes  the  fun  of  courtship,  when  the  modest  lady 
bobolinks  appear  on  the  ground.  With  the  praise  of  them  on 
their  lips,  the  males  come  near  and  ask  each  for  the  hand  of 
his  lady-love.  Should  a  rival  seek  an  accepted  sweetheart, 
the  rightful  mate  drives  him  from  the  field,  literally  speaking, 
and  the  by  no  means  dejected  lover  goes  to  another  meadow 
for  a  bride.  And  that  is  all  right,  for  aren't  all  lady  bobo- 
links alike?  No,  indeed,  they  are  not!  or  so  think  their 
devoted  mates,  for  never  was  closer  tie  than  binds  the  two  to 
one  another.  The  male  never  leaves  the  neighborhood  of  his 
family,  but  sings  to  his  mate  as  she  attends  fondly  to  those 
affairs  which  gladden  the  heart  of  nature  among  bird  or  beast 
or  insect.  And  she  has  not  far  to  go  for  nesting  materials. 
She  may  even  shorten  matters  by  shoving  together  a  bunch 
of  dry  leaves  and  grass  that  served  for  the  nest  of  a  field- 
mouse  last  fall.  And  she  eats  as  she  works,  for  at  every  pull 
at  blade  or  leaf  an  insect  runs  out  of  its  hiding-place,  right 
into  her  mouth,  as  it  were.  And  if  the  farmer  happen  to  be 
plowing,  she  will  run  along  at  the  back  of  him,  on  the  margin 
of  the  last  furrow,  for  grub  or  larva,  slipping  back  into 
the  grass  of  the  hay-field  before  ever  he  turns  for  the  next 
furrow. 

If  the  bobolinks  flew  north  in  the  light  of  the  moon  they 
may  expect  good  luck;  and  sometime  in  June,  where  before 
there  were  a  pair  of  birds,  there  are  now  half  a  dozen  or  one 
more  than  that.  The  eggs  are  five  or  six,  but,  as  with  most 
birds,  " there's  no  telling,"  and  if  the  parents  succeed  in  rais- 


126  Birds  of  Song  and  Story 

ing  three  or  four  children  out  of  their  single  brood  for  the 
summer,  they  do  well. 

There's  no  better  June  fun  than  hunting  for  bobolinks' 
nests.  When  it  comes  to  disturbing  them,  that  is  another 
question.  The  farmer  may  not  like  to  have  his  meadow-grass 
trodden  down  before  it  is  piled  on  the  hay-wagon,  but  it  can't 
be  helped.  And  while  the  search  is  going  on,  there  are  so 
many  other  things  coming  to  pass  at  the  same  time,  quite 
unlocked  for,  that  one  sometimes  laughs  and  sometimes 
cries.  There  are  the  bumblebees,  for  instance!  The  boys 
hadn't  taken  them  into  account,  and  a  fellow's  shins  begin  to 
warn  him  of  danger  that  is  mostly  past.  And  there  are  the 
nettles  hiding  in  their  own  nooks  on  purpose  to  sting.  And 
the  little  patches  of  smartweed  which  one  has  to  cross  in  going 
from  the  east  end  of  the  meadow  to  the  west  end  harbors 
crawling  and  hopping  people  that  one  doesn't  see  in  time  to 
avoid;  and  though  they  don't  bite  at  all,  they  do  look  and 
feel — well,  most  any  boy  knows  how  they  feel  if  he  cannot 
tell  it.  O,  yes,  it  is  fun  hunting  bobolinks'  nests,  if  one 
respects  the  rights  of  one's  neighbors  in  feathers.  With  note- 
book and  pencil  a  boy  can  put  down  the  date  of  hatch,  and 
growth  of  quill  and  beak  and  strength,  and  a  thousand  things 
it  is  good  to  know  about  birds.  Only,  as  a  rule,  a  single  boy 
never  goes  on  a  bobolink  hunt.  And  it's  of  no  use  for  a  whole 
bevy  of  boys  to  load  themselves  with  lead-pencils.  They 
never  have  been  known  to  put  down  a  single  item  of  obser- 
vation under  these  circumstances.  To  make  a  business  of 
studying  bobolinks  or  other  birds,  a  person  must  be  all  alone. 
And  there  isn't  the  temptation  to  pilfer  when  one  is  all  alone. 
One  catches  sight  of  the  father  bobolink  swinging  and  sway- 


Bobolink  127 

ing  on  a  stout  but  yielding  weed  stalk,  singing  for  all  he  is 
worth,  and  one  cannot  steal,  not  that  time. 

But  a  nest  would  seldom  be  found  if  the  foolish  birds 
would  keep  a  close  mouth  about  the  matter.  It  does  seem 
as  if  they  would  learn  after  a  while,  but  they  don't.  As  soon 
as  a  stranger  with  two  legs  or  four  comes  within  sight  of  the 
spot,  the  birds  set  up  what  they  intend  for  a  warning  cry, 
but  which  is  in  reality  an  "information  call."  Under  its 
spell  one  can  walk  straight  to  the  nest,  which  even  yet,  on 
account  of  its  color  and  surroundings,  may  be  taken  for  an 
innocent  bunch  of  grass,  provided  one  has  as  good  eyes  as  the 
skunk  has  nose. 

But  nesting-time  passes,  with  all  its  pleasures  and  trials 
and  dangers  and  happy-go-lucky  affairs.  Late  summer  sees 
the  young  bobolinks  out  of  the  nest  and  away  to  the  weed 
stalks  with  their  parents.  The  young  males  set  up  an  inde- 
pendent though  weakly  melodious  warble  on  their  own 
account,  though  they  have  not  yet  forgotten  their  baby  ways, 
and  still  coax  the  parents  for  a  good  bite  of  bug  or  beetle. 
It  is  about  the  only  very  young  bird  we  are  acquainted  with 
that  is  as  precocious  in  regard  to  song.  It  is  by  this  only 
that  it  is  recognized  as  a  male  in  this  first  season,  being 
clothed  like  the  mother  and  sisters.  And,  strange  to  say, 
about  this  time  the  father  bobolink  begins  to  don  another 
dress.  His  black  and  white  are  inconspicuous,  as  if  faded 
with  the  summer  sun,  and  he  ceases  to  sing  as  formerly.  The 
fact  is,  he  has  no  time  to  sing  now,  with  the  young  birds  to 
help  along,  as  it  is  getting  almost  "time  to  move."  And 
this  strange  bird  actually  seems  to  forget  which  are  his  own 
children,  for  the  whole  neighborhood  gathers  together,  males, 


128  Birds  of  Song  and  Story 

females,  and  young,  helter-skelter,  each  intent  on  gastronomic 
affairs  and  the  growing  of  feathers.  As  the  days  wear  away, 
and  the  sere  and  yellow  leaf  of  sumac  and  beech  and  maple 
warn  all  good  folk  that  winter  is  getting  ready  to  travel  back 
home,  the  bobolinks  preen  up.  Slyly,  like  the  Arab,  they 
steal  away;  not  suddenly  as  they  came  in  the  spring,  but 
slowly  and  deliberately.  The  wings  of  the  young  must  have 
time  to  expand,  and  season  and  endure  fatigue.  Besides, 
bird  families  are  not  able  to  carry  lunch-baskets  on  an  autumn 
outing.  So  the  bobolinks  pass  slowly  toward  the  South, 
feeding  as  they  go,  never  exercising  enough  to  lose  weight, 
but  actually  fattening  on  the  journey. 

Now,  taking  all  things  into  account,  the  bobolinks  are  the 
most  sensible  of  people.  Persons  who  ought  to  know  better 
by  experience  and  observation  hurry  on  a  journey,  take  no 
time  to  enjoy  the  scenery  and  the  people  that  live  along  the 
route.  At  the  journey's  end  they  are  depleted,  tired,  worn 
to  skin  and  bone,  and  out  of  sorts  with  travel.  Not  so  the 
bobolinks!  They  have  no  bones  at  the  journey's  end.  They 
have  fattened  themselves  into  butter.  They  have  put  on 
flesh  as  the  bare  spring  trees  put  on  leaves,  and  the  butternut 
takes  in  oil.  All  the  way  they  eat  and  drink,  and  make  as 
merry  as  they  can  with  so  much  fat  on  them. 

The  yesterday's  bird  of  mad  music  is  to-day  the  bird  of 
mad  appetite.  True,  they  may  call  out  "chink"  in  passing, 
but  "chink"  means  "chock-full,"  and  people  who  delight 
in  bobolink  table-fare  recognize  the  true  meaning  of  the 
note. 

Bobolink  has  forgotten  to  call  his  own  name,  so  he  answers 
to  any  nickname  the  epicurean  lovers  of  him  please  to  call  him 
by — "rice-bird,"  "reed-bird,"  "butter-bird,"  anything  or 


Bobolink  129 

everything  that  is  appropriate.  And  "  'possum"  sits  up  on 
a  stump  and  laughs. 

Never  mind,  'possum,  it's  your  turn  all  the  time.  If  bobo- 
link could  imitate  you  in  the  art  of  making-believe  dead,  he 
would  fare  better — until  folks  found  him  out.  People  have 
little  use  for  a  dead  bobolink,  unless  shot-gun  or  snare  be  in  at 
the  death.  But  bobolinks  never  seem  to  learn  of  'possums  or 
anybody  else.  They  follow  in  the  wake  of  their  ancestor 
bobolinks,  over  the  selfsame  route  to  the  South ;  dining  in  the 
selfsame  rice-fields;  swinging  on  the  selfsame  reed  stalks, 
exactly  as  the  reed  stalks  come  up  each  year  in  the  place  of 
last  season's  petiole. 

It's  a  sad,  pathetic  tale.  But  wait!  Spring  is  coming  in 
the  steps  of  last  year's  spring-time;  over  the  selfsame  route, 
to  the  selfsame  end  and  fortunes.  With  the  spring  will  return 
the  bobolinks,  as  many  as  have  survived  disaster.  Before 
you  know  it  he  will  be  calling  himself  in  the  meadows,  exactly 
as  he  called  last  spring.  The  seasons  and  the  birds  are  but 
echoes  of  themselves. 

Robert  o'  Lincoln,  with  his  latest  striped  coat,  will  sway 
on  the  stems  and  wait  for  his  sweetheart.  He  will  flirt  with 
neither  sparrow  nor  thrush  until  she  arrives.  He  is  true,  is 
the  bobolink!  So  is  the  polecat,  growing  lean  under  his 
winter  stump,  and  licking  his  lips  at  the  sound  of  the  farmer 
calling  to  his  children,  "The  skunk-blackbird  has  come!" 

"When  you  can  pipe  in  that  merry  old  strain, 
Robert  o'  Lincoln,  come  back  again." 


CHAPTER  XV 

AT  NESTING-TIME 

"I  pray  you  hear  my  song  of  a  nest, 
For  it  is  not  long." 

In  the  preceding  chapters  we  have  said  little  about  the 
female  or  mother  birds.  In  referring  to  a  single  individual 
we  have  used  the  pronoun  he,  as  if  "he"  and  no  other  were 
worthy  of  affectionate  notice. 

As  apology,  we  refer  our  readers  to  the  title  of  our  book, 
"Birds  of  Song  and  Story." 

As  it  is  mostly  the  male  who  sings,  and  also  the  male  who 
wears  the  more  beautiful  plumage,  we  have  given  him  the 
first  or  greater  space.  It  is  the  male  who  figures  in  myth  or 
legend,  since  it  is  he  who  speaks  or  is  known  for  conspicuous 
markings. 

But  always,  at  the  right  season,  is  the  wife  bird  or  the 
mother  bird  loyal  and  true,  sweet  and  modest  of  color  and 
habit.  It  is  she  who  "lives  for  a  purpose" — if  purpose  ever 
moves  the  heart  of  a  bird.  It  is  she  who  sacrifices  her  own 
individual  preferences  and  joys  for  the  sake  of  others.  It  is 
she,  mostly,  who  makes  the  family  fortunes.  It  is  she,  save 
in  a  few  instances,  who  builds  the  nest,  and  warms  the  eggs 
when  once  she  has  placed  them  where  they  ought  to  be. 

As  it  is  the  vocation  or  pleasure  of  her  mate  to  sing,  it  is 
hers  to  listen.  And  surely  her  family  cares  would  be  dreary 
enough  were  it  not  for  the  song  she  hears.  It  is  always  for  her 
that  her  lord  makes  music,  as  if  he  knows  her  "mother  term" 

130 


OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY 

n  OF 

ft^L/FO 


At  Nesting-Time  131 

is  long  and  monotonous.  Many  a  time  his  eye  is  on  her, 
when  the  keenest  human  spy  fails  to  "see  where  that  nest  is." 
No  hiding  the  exact  spot  from  old  father  bird.  Didn't  he 
help  select  it?  Wasn't  he  there  at  the  start?  Of  course  he 
was! 

In  early  spring,  before  actual  nesting-time,  a  male  bird  is 
seen  coaxing  his  mate  to  think  of  the  conveniences  of  some 
certain  spot.  He  flies  to  a  corner  or  a  crotch  and  turns  and 
twists  and  makes  signs,  and  grows  excited,  as  if  urging  his 
mate  to  commence  at  that  very  moment  and  at  that  very  spot. 
Wife  bird,  coming  to  his  side,  considers  and  accepts  his  sug- 
gestions, or  laughs  at  them,  as  the  case  may  be.  Should  she 
accept  the  site  of  his  choice,  it  is  not  then,  not  just  at  that 
moment.  It  is  as  if  she  fears  the  noise  and  bustle  of  her 
companion  may  have  attracted  attention.  She  returns  in 
some  quiet  hour,  and  all  by  herself  begins  her  summer  work. 

We  have  seen  a  boisterous  oriole  lead  his  lady  to  a  banana 
leaf  and  do  his  best  to  coax  her  into  immediate  acceptance  of 
the  location.  It  is  not  until  the  following  day  that  we  notice 
the  first  swinging  threads.  And  it  is  the  same  with  many 
other  birds  which  nest  near  the  house.  Perhaps  the  linnet,  or 
house-finch,  is  the  most  persistent  in  choosing  a  nest  site.  He 
is  sometimes  seen  at  the  business  late  in  the  fall  and  early 
winter,  turning  about  in  corners  and  nest-boxes,  chattering 
to  his  mate,  and  "making  himself  so  silly."  His  mate,  of 
more  sense,  looks  on  and  lets  him  talk,  seeming  to  smile  at 
his  foolishness.  Doesn't  he  know,  at  his  age,  that  she  will 
be  on  hand  at  the  proper  time? 

As  a  rule,  it  is  the  mother  bird  who  does  all  the  nest- work. 
We  have  seen  her  closely  followed  by  the  male,  in  the  case  of 
the  linnet  and  many  of  the  other  finches;  the  song-sparrow 


132  Birds  of  Song  and  Story 

and  chippie  and  towhee  and  mocker  and  oriole  each  keeps  at 
the  side  of  his  dear  companion  and  follows  her  on  the  wing, 
singing,  while  her  mouth  is  full  of  grass  or  other  stuff.  When 
she  alights  at  the  threshold  of  her  nursery  he  alights  too,  on 
a  near  twig,  to  follow  her  back  to  the  material  in  a  moment 
or  two.  By  hiding  in  the  shrubbery  one  can  see  so  much  of 
interest  at  nesting-time.  But  first  of  all,  would  bird-lovers 
induce  parent  birds  to  choose  the  home  grounds,  preparation 
must  be  made  some  time  in  advance. 

Trees  must  be  planted  and  allowed  to  grow  naturally,  not 
in  clipped  or  distorted  forms.  Birds  love  natural  growth.  They 
recognize  wild  things  and  nooks  when  these  are  planned  and 
made  to  grow  in  private  grounds.  Now  and  then  a  tree  root 
upturned;  a  pile  of  boughs;  a  heap  of  cuttings  and  prunings 
the  gardener  would  have  condemned  to  the  fire ;  a  bit  of  space 
overlooked  by  the  lawn-mower,  moist  and  grass-tangled; 
woodpiles  and  logs  left  where  they  are  until  moss  and  toad- 
stools have  covered  them,  and  bugs  have  housed  in  them — a 
thousand  things  people,  in  their  love  of  order  and  neatness, 
dispose  of  at  sight — would  prove  untold  attraction  to  the  birds. 
Too  many  homes  in  city  and  country  are  not  frequented  by 
these  visitors,  who  really  prefer  our  grounds  to  the  woods 
when  once  they  learn  their  welcome.  When  induced  for  a 
single  season  to  build  in  cultivated  places,  a  pair  of  birds  will 
return,  often  bringing  several  other  pairs  with  them. 

It  seems  as  if  certain  birds  are  popular  among  their  people, 
and  "set  the  pace,"  as  it  were,  in  the  matter  of  nesting 
habits.  The  places  they  frequent  are  sought  after  by  the  rest ; 
and  not  only  by  their  own  kind  or  species,  but  by  birds  of 
different  character. 

It  is  with  birds  as  with  humankind — many  different  sorts 


At  Nesting-Time  133 

make  up  a  popular  neighborhood.  Bird  families  do  not 
choose  to  wander  away  to  some  remote  part  of  the  country 
and  make  a  settlement.  Indeed,  as  we  have  studied  them, 
birds  delight  in  fraternal  good-fellowship. 

Within  an  area  of  two  hundred  feet  square  in  our  grounds 
we  have  counted  thirty-three  varieties  in  this  single  season. 
Of  these,  fifteen  have  nested — the  linnet,  two  varieties  of 
goldfinch,  chipping-sparrow,  song-sparrow,  humming-bird, 
towhee,  mocker,  pewee,  phoebe,  oriole,  thrush,  black-headed 
grosbeak,  yellow  warbler,  and  bush-tit.  Some  of  these  have 
nested  twice  or  three  times  in  our  long  season.  These  birds 
are  not  seen  to  quarrel  nor  to  disagree  as  to  the  locations 
chosen.  Each  respects  the  other's  rights,  even  to  keeping 
guard  over  one  another's  children.  Be  a  single  family  or 
even  one  little  bird  in  trouble,  each  and  all  of  these  birds 
mentioned  come  to  the  rescue.  At  such  times  the  varying 
notes  are  a  sound  both  interesting  and  amusing.  Food  and 
water  are  always  before  these  birds  in  shady  places  or  in  the 
sunshine.  Materials  for  nest-building  are  spread  before  them 
the  whole  six  months  of  the  nesting-season,  from  horsehair 
and  strings  to  mud,  paper,  rags,  bark,  feathers,  cotton,  dry 
grasses,  lint,  and  a  general  assortment  of  lichens.  The  lin- 
nets, goldfinches,  hummers,  orioles,  yellow  warblers,  and 
bush-tits  lose  their  wits  over  the  fluffy  white  cotton.  Our 
song-sparrows  and  phcebes  are  not  seen  to  use  other  than 
material  of  dark  color,  like  brown  rootlets  and  mud  for  phcebes, 
and  old  grass  blades  and  dark  horsehair  for  the  sparrows. 
Mention  has  been  made  as  to  most  of  the  others. 

The  linnets  are  the  easier  suited.  A  black  last  year's 
sparrow's  nest  put  in  the  box  under  the  eaves  in  place  of  a 
new  white  cotton  one  is  accepted,  with  no  questions  asked. 


134  Birds  of  Song  and  Story 

We  have  substituted  nest  for  nest  many  times,  and  find  there 
is  no  choice.  Also,  we  have  substituted  young  birds  of  the 
same  species,  and  each  and  all  are  adopted.  Sometimes  we 
find  an  orphan  birdling,  which  is  sure  to  be  cared  for  provided 
it  be  placed  in  the  nest  of  any  kind,  motherly  bird.  Of 
course,  in  thus  trading  or  causing  to  be  adopted  young  birds, 
we  are  careful  not  to  give  a  seed-eater  to  a  meat-eater,  and 
vice  versa. 

An  insect  fare  would  hardly  agree  with  nurslings  accus- 
tomed to  regurgitated  food,  like  the  finches  and  hummers. 
Once  we  rescued  a  tiny  young  hummer  from  a  " wicked  boy," 
who  had  come  to  the  treasure  by  theft.  The  little  thing  was 
nearly  dead  with  cold  and  hunger.  But  we  knew  exactly 
where  to  find  a  dear,  motherly  old  soul  in  the  person  of  a 
humming-bird,  who  had  just  completed  her  nest.  We  placed 
the  orphan  in  the  frail  cradle,  so  weak  it  could  scarcely  open 
its  beak.  The  old  bird  came  at  once,  cuddled  and  coddled 
the  baby  as  only  a  humming-bird  can  do,  with  her  small,  soft 
breast.  In  ten  minutes  the  wee  one  was  having  its  supper, 
and  it  was  raised  by  the  foster-parent. 

There  seems  to  be  something  in  the  breast  of  mother  birds 
at  the  nesting-season  akin  to  human  instinct.  All  these  inter- 
esting studies  go  on  with  us  at  our  door.  No  cats  are  allowed 
within  certain  bounds.  And  any  home  may  be  the  same  if 
the  dwellers  will  take  the  trouble.  An  ideal  corner  in  a 
school-yard  would  be  one  in  which  birds  were  taught  confi- 
dence and  dependence.  Birds  are  subject  to  cultivation  and 
encouragement. 

If  one  is  just  making  a  start  toward  this,  quick  movement 
in  the  shrubbery  should  not  be  indulged  in.  Loud,  sudden 
noises  and  throwing  balls  or  other  things,  at  the  commencing 


At  Nesting-Time  135 

of  the  nest  season,  frighten  the  birds.  One  must  learn  to 
stand  stock-still  and  listen  and  look.  Birds  notice  movement 
more  than  sound.  Sidewise  motions  disturb,  where  straight, 
go-ahead  methods  are  not  noticed. 

By  gradually  accustoming  birds  to  one's  presence,  and  then 
to  one's  voice,  and  then  to  the  near  approach,  one  may  suc- 
ceed in  taming  wild  birds  at  nesting-time.  We  have  had  the 
finches  and  linnets  and  towhees  and  bush-tits  and  humming- 
birds perfectly  trustful,  even  to  some  of  the  males,  whose 
presence  at  the  nests  is  not  absolutely  essential.  We  have 
had  the  parent  birds  feed  the  young  from  our  hands,  we 
standing  at  the  nest.  As  to  nesting  itself,  the  fun  to  be  had 
of  a  spring  morning  is  beyond  description.  After  learning 
this  familiarity  the  birds  will  go  on  without  noticing  us.  The 
towhee  straggles  across  the  grass,  tugging  a  long  rag  much 
too  heavy  to  fly  with.  The  mocker  pulls  straws  from  the 
torn  end  of  a  garden  cushion.  The  bush-tit  gathers  bits  of 
lichen  from  the  bough  on  which  our  hands  rest.  The  phoebe 
scarcely  waits  for  us  to  step  aside  that  she  may  bite  the  shreds 
from  the  jute  door-mat,  to  mix  with  her  mud.  The  sparrow, 
scratching  away  under  the  tree  for  a  bug  and  a  bit  of  leaf  at 
one  and  the  same  time,  treads  on  our  toes  in  her  fearlessness. 
The  hummer  fans  our  faces  with  her  wings,  should  we  happen 
to  be  near  the  "cotton-counter." 

When  the  young  birds  are  just  big  enough  to  tumble  out 
of  the  nest,  then  nursery-times  fairly  begin.  The  ground  is 
alive  with  them.  Of  many  sizes  and  features,  more  especially 
as  to  beak,  they  peep  and  scream  and  coax.  By  sundown 
those  not  old  enough  to  hop  or  flutter  to  a  safe  place  are  the 
source  of  great  anxiety.  We  are  obliged  to  go  out  and  help 
"put  the  babies  to  bed,"  And  these  twilight  times,  more 


136  Birds  of  Song  and  Story 

than  the  whole  day,  are  the  "cat-times."  Pussy  understands 
the  turmoil.  She  skulks  and  prowls,  and  scarcely  dares  to 
breathe  in  her  silent  hopes.  It  is  then  that  we  dare  breathe, 
and  many  other  things.  This  incessant  war  on  the  feline 
tribe  must  be  kept  up  would  any  one  have  birds  around  his 
home. 

There  is  one  thing  at  nesting-time  that  puzzles  us.  Why 
do  mother  birds  pass  carelessly  by  so  much  good  material? 
They  pick  up  this  grass  or  string  or  feather,  to  drop  it  for 
another.  And  then,  why  do  they  pass  by  this  or  that  fly  or 
other  insect  and  pick  up  another? 

They  probably  have  their  reasons,  the  same  as  they  choose 
between  equally  good  nest  locations.  It  is  on  this  account 
that  we  are  particular  to  have  a  variety  of  everything  in  their 
way. 

It  is  at  nesting-time  that  we  take  especial  care  of  the 
garden  table.  We  furnish  everything  we  imagine  acceptable. 
As  soon  as  the  young  of  finches  or  sparrows  are  out  of  the 
nest  they  are  brought  to  the  table  by  their  parents.  All  the 
birds  have  a  sweet  tooth.  They  like  cookies  and  pie  and 
sugar  and  (as  will  be  remembered  in  the  case  of  the  sparrows) 
good  molasses.  It  was  when  the  tourist  robins  were  here 
that  we  thought  about  the  molasses.  The  robins  wouldn't 
take  it  clear,  as  the  sparrows  did,  so  we  mixed  it  with  meal. 
They  came  and  looked  at  it  and  tasted,  and  liked  it  very  well. 
Thinking  to  score  a  point  for  the  temperance  people,  \ve 
mixed  some  old  bourbon  with  the  pudding.  A  tipsy  robin 
would  be  a  funny  sight!  But  not  a  morsel  of  the  meal  would 
they  ever  touch.  We  kept  up  the  game  several  days,  it 
resulting  at  last  in  all  the  robins  leaving  the  grounds  in  dis- 
gust. Then  we  tried  it  on  the  sparrows,  but  to  no  purpose. 


At  Nesting-Time  137 

Every  bird  grew  suspicious,  and  we  had  to  give  it  up.  This 
proved  to  us  that  birds  cultivate  the  sense  of  smell. 

Birds  in  general  are  like  the  donkey  before  whose  nose  is 
suspended  a  wisp  of  hay  tied  to  the  end  of  a  pole,  "to  make 
him  go."  Of  course  in  the  case  of  the  donkey  the  pole  goes 
in  advance  of  the  nose,  and  it's  a  long  while  before  the  wisp 
and  the  appetite  have  a  passing  acquaintance.  With  the 
birds  at  our  home  the  "wisp"  is  always  out,  so  they  are  in  no 
hurry  to  migrate.  They  do  not  leave  us  for  so  much  as  a 
short  visit  to  their  folks  in  Mexico  until  the  molt  is  well  under 
way.  Some  summer  visitants  even  molt  completely  with  us, 
and  it  is  a  sorry  season.  By  the  time  a  young  bird  is  able  to 
hustle  for  himself  he  wouldn't  know  his  own  mother.  She 
has  shed  the  feathers  around  the  beak,  leaving  her  nose  or 
mouth  so  grotesque  one  has  to  laugh.  Seeming  to  understand 
the  joke  is  at  their  expense;  some  of  our  birds  at  this  time 
keep  well  hidden,  and  come  only  to  the  edges  of  the  shrub- 
bery for  food,  or  if  overtaken  in  the  open,  they  run  as  fast  as 
their  legs  can  carry  them.  A  song-sparrow  without  a  bit  of 
tail  is  hopping  now  under  the  window,  chirping  her  happy 
note,  but  hiding  if  we  look  at  her. 

A  hummer,  which  yesterday  took  honey  from  the  flowers 
we  held  in  our  lips,  sits  on  a  tiny  twig,  the  picture  of  despair 
because  her  neck  feathers  are  so  thin.  A  mocker  who  has 
drank  all  summer  from  the  dish  with  the  bees,  peeps  at  her 
shadow  and  preens  imaginary  quills.  Half  of  them  are  on 
the  ground  by  the  table. 

A  phoebe  sits  alone  on  the  housetop,  wailing,  thinking  no 
doubt  she  is  singing,  and  looking  the  picture  of  distress,  with 
one  tail-feather,  and  not  enough  of  her  ordinary  neckerchief 
around  her  neck  to  cover  the  bare  skin  of  it.  And  the  nests, 


138  Birds  of  Song  and  Story 

where  are  they?  Just  where  they  were.  But  they  are  faded 
and  old  and  deserted.  Never  does  a  young  bird  go  back  to 
the  nest  after  it  has  once  left  it,  though  some  people  believe 
they  use  it  for  a  bed  until  long  into  the  autumn.  We  have 
not  seen  them  do  so.  They  scorn  the  old  thing!  Isn't  it  as 
full  of  mites  as  it  can  hold?  Of  course  it  is,  especially  if  it 
be  a  linnet's  nest.  When  the  third  brood  came  out  in  the 
same  nest  we  found  it  so  infested  with  mites,  almost  invisible, 
that  we  could  not  touch  it.  And  the  poor  little  birdlings  had 
to  bide  their  time  in  getting  away.  It  is  supposed  to  be  on 
account  of  these  parasites  that  some  birds  compose  their  nests 
of  strong-smelling  weeds.  However,  we  have  not  known  any 
of  the  nests  near  us  to  be  disturbed  by  these  parasites  save 
those  in  which  several  broods  are  reared.  We  have  a  seven- 
story  flat,  on  each  successive  floor  of  which  a  linnet  and  a 
phcebe  have  nested.  Phoebe's  nest  is  mud,  linnet's  is  straw 
and  hair.  Each  builds  atop  of  the  others.  It  may  grow  to 
be  a  sky-scraper  yet.  Many  of  the  mother  birds  sing  at 
nesting-time.  The  house-finch,  or  linnet,  keeps  a  continual 
twitter  while  incubating.  So  also  the  goldfinches.  These 
notes  are  low  and  very  musical  and  happy.  The  phcebe 
speaks  her  mournful  note  under  the  eaves  while  on  the  nest. 
By  close  listening,  when  other  things  are  noiseless,  one  may 
detect  the  almost  inaudible  note  of  some  of  the  hummers. 
The  ear  of  a  nature-lover  grows  keen  by  practice.  There  are 
low,  nearly  inarticulate  whisperings  among  the  birds  in  sum- 
mer days  never  heard  by  those  who  have  not  learned  the  art 
of  listening.  The  nest  of  the  summer  yellowbird  may  be 
within  six  feet  of  a  person  on  the  hunt  for  it,  who,  though  of 
keen  eye,  may  never  find  it,  for  lack  of  as  keen  an  ear  to  hear 
the  low  note  of  the  mother  bird  behind  the  foliage. 


At  Nesting-Time  139 

By  close  observation  one  may  come  to  disprove  many 
things  said  against  the  birds.  For  instance,  a  neighbor  told 
us  to  be  careful  how  we  encouraged  the  orioles  and  phoebes 
to  nest  in  our  grounds  if  we  didn't  want  them  to  eat  up  all 
our  honey-bees.  As  usual  with  us  in  such  cases,  we  accepted 
the  warning  "with  a  pinch  of  salt,"  and  took  to  making 
observations  on  our  own  account. 

Locating  ourselves  behind  an  open  window  near  the  bee- 
hives, we  watched.  A  vine  trellis  with  top  bar  uncovered 
offered  safe  footing  to  phcebe ;  on  she  came  with  five  young 
phoebes  hatched  on  the  fourth-floor  flat  under  the  eaves. 
The  young  birds  were  whining  for  food.  As  plain  as  any 
words  can  be,  they  cried,  "Bees,  bees,  please!"  And  bees 
they  were  to  have  for  dinner!  The  mother  led  them  to  the 
trellis  bar,  where  they  squatted  in  a  row,  peeping  their  long- 
ings. Bees  were  flying  thicker  than  hail.  The  mother  canted 
her  head  from  side  to  side,  the  black  eye  of  the  upward  cant 
searching  the  homeward-bound  insects.  "Why  don't  you 
help  yourself?"  we  wondered.  In  a  few  minutes  the  bum, 
bum,  of  the  drones  was  heard.  Then  mother  phcebe  darted, 
and  darted,  and  darted ;  each  time  she  snapped  a  big,  sting- 
less,  bumming  drone,  which  she  killed  by  banging  its  head 
against  the  bar.  Then  it  was  taken  by  a  little  phosbe,  or 
more  often  by  two  phcebes,  who  tugged  at  the  creature  until 
it  came  in  two  parts,  or  was  cunningly  appropriated  as  a 
whole  by  one  of  them.  This  meal-time  went  on  until  all 
were,  for  the  time  being,  appeased,  and  the  family  flew  off. 
By  the  middle  of  next  day  they  returned  and  went  through 
the  same  performances,  very  amusing  to  the  witnesses  inside 
the  window.  Now,  not  a  single  worker-bee  was  touched! 
And  the  mother  phcebe  knew  the  exact  hour  for  the  flying  of 


140  Birds  of  Song  and  Story 

drones.  These  lazy,  shiftless,  bumming  fellows  never  leave 
the  hives  until  the  day  is  far  advanced  and  the  sun  has 
warmed  things  up.  So,  not  breakfast,  but  dinner,  was  made 
of  the  drones. 

As  for  the  orioles,  we  were  willing  to  give  them  a  chance 
to  speak  for  themselves.  They  appeared  about  April  loth,  as 
usual.  And  straight  for  the  bee  corner  of  the  garden  they 
went.  "I  told  you  so!"  said  the  neighbor.  We  watched. 
There  were  rose-bushes  and  vines  in  that  part  of  the  grounds, 
and  to  these  the  orioles  hastened  as  fast  as  their  wings  could 
take  them.  The  beehives  sit  under  a  row  of  moss-roses  so 
thickly  covered  with  spines  that  one  cannot  take  hold  of  them 
without  gloves.  But  this  pair  of  orioles  ran  up  and  down  and 
in  and  out  without  fear.  These  and  many  other  rose-bushes 
did  they  examine  minutely,  pecking  away  as  fast  as  they  could 
move  their  beaks.  Right  at  the  entrance  to  the  hives  they 
went,  on  straggling  briers,  but  not  a  bee  did  they  touch. 
We  were  as  close  to  them  as  we  wished  to  be.  Suddenly  we 
scared  them  away  before  they  should  have  devoured  every 
secret,  and  there  was  retreat  for  our  neighbor !  The  orioles 
had  been  eating  the  little  green  plant-lice  that  infest  rose- 
bushes early  in  the  spring. 

Later  they  took  to  watching  the  bees,  and  we  resumed 
our  watch  of  the  orioles.  It  was  midsummer,  and  the  young 
birds  were  all  about,  crying  for  bread,  or  rather  for  "bees," 
though  their  pronunciation  was  not  so  distinct  as  that  of  the 
young  phcebes.  The  parent  orioles  took  their  stand  right  on 
the  doorstep  of  the  hives,  and  waited  with  head  slightly 
turned,  alert,  ready  for  "a  bite."  Not  a  worker  did  they 
touch,  but  when  a  drone  came  bumming  along  he  was  nabbed 
as  quick  as  a  wink.  All  drone-time  (which  lasts  about  two 


At  Nesting-Time  141 

months  with  us)  did  the  orioles  patronize  the  beehives. 
Unmolested  did  the  tireless  workers  come,  pollen-loaded,  and 
run  in  at  the  entrance. 

When  the  summer  yellowbirds  have  three  or  four  hungry 
mouths  to  feed,  just  watch  at  the  open  window  behind  the 
snowball-bush  and  "see  what  you  see."  Little  green  cater- 
pillars make  nourishing  food  for  baby  yellowbirds.  The 
parents  might  be  running  up  and  down  amid  the  green  and 
white  of  the  bush,  just  for  effect  of  color,  but  they  are  not. 
Those  little,  soft,  green  biscuits  are  the  objects  of  their  ramble. 

It  has  been  an  open  question  as  to  whether  old  birds  carry 
water  to  the  young.  In  the  case  of  tame  canaries  they  have 
been  seen  to  regurgitate  a  whole  cropful  of  the  liquid  into 
waiting  "parched  throats."  So  we  may  conclude  that  young 
birds  require  water. 

In  the  case  of  a  very  young  humming-bird  who  was 
deprived  of  its  mother,  we  raised  it  for  a  while,  at  least,  on 
milk  sweetened  with  honey,  feeding  it  with  an  eye-dropper 
such  as  surgeons  use.  The  milk  was  a  good  substitute  for 
such  animal  food  as  the  young  of  hummers  are  accustomed 
to.  When  young  humming-birds  come  out  of  the  nest,  and 
for  many  weeks,  they  are  either  very  fearless  or  their  sight  is 
not  good.  Surely  it  is  not  the  latter,  unless  it  be  atoned  for 
by  greater  sense  of  smell ;  for  they  come  to  flowers  we  hold 
up  to  them,  and  even  light  on  our  hands  and  faces,  following 
us  in  the  shrubbery. 

As  a  rule,  young  birds  are  suspicious  and  wary.  They 
know  by  instinct  how  and  where  to  hide.  After  sundown  is 
the  time  to  see  interesting  events  connected  with  supper  and 
bedtime.  By  close  and  quiet  watching  one  may  see  for  one's 
self  where  and  how  young  birds  sleep.  Some  retire  to  the 


142  Birds  of  Song  and  Story 

same  bough  or  bush  each  night.  A  family  of  bush-tits  slept 
in  a  row  on  an  orange  twig  every  night  for  two  weeks,  in 
plain  sight  of  us,  and  as  near  as  six  feet  from  our  hands. 
The  parents  had  been  blessed  with  unusual  success  in  this 
particular  brood,  bringing  off  six.  These  all  slept  in  a  row, 
"heads  and  tails,"  whispering  the  softest  of  notes  until  quite 
dark. 

We  have  never  been  able  to  account  for  all  the  egg-shells 
that  disappear  in  nesting-times.  Now  and  then  cracked  bits 
are  found  in  fields  and  woods,  but  only  bits.  One  might  get 
some  information  from  the  ants  that  are  always  prowling 
about  for  detached  morsels  of  animal  life.  The  birds  them- 
selves may  eat  or  hide  them,  lest  they  tell  tales.  We  have 
found  shells  far  away  from  any  nests,  as  if  they  had  been 
carried  on  purpose.  Sometimes  they  lie  in  the  nest  bottom 
in  powder. 

It  is  worth  while  to  take  a  peep  into  every  nest,  just  to 
get  "pointers" — but  never  to  get  birdlings!  And  one's 
peeps  should  not  be  too  frequent.  It  disturbs  family  order 
and  confidence.  Besides,  if  one  takes  to  peeping  when  the 
birds  are  nearly  fledged  they  often  become  frightened,  and 
leave  the  nest  too  immature  to  warrant  freedom  and  safety. 
Young  birds  are  seen  to  sit  or  cling  to  the  edge  of  the  nest 
long  before  they  are  able  to  fly.  At  night  they  snuggle  down 
into  the  warmth — and  warmth  as  much  as  food  is  essential  to 
young  birds.  But  nesting-time  has  an  end,  like  all  good 
times. 

When  the  late  peaches  turn  their  rosiest  cheek  to  the 
autumn  sun,  and  the  husk  of  the  beechnut  opens  its  pale 
lips,  then  are  the  nests  that  were  so  lately  the  center  of  attrac- 
tion tenantless  and  neglected.  Old  birds,  in  passing,  take  no 


At  Nesting-Time  143 

notice  of  them,  and  the  hungry  juveniles  pay  no  visible  heed. 
What  care  they  for  cradles,  now  that  the  universal  cry  is 
" Bread  and  butter,  please"? 

Baby  zephyrs  nap  on  the  worn-out  linings,  and  the  rain 
runs  its  slim  fingers  through  the  fading  meshes.  Even  the 
domestic  feline,  who  was  -wont  to  peep  into  the  heart  of  every 
one  of  them,  no  longer  is  discovered  inquiring  into  the  nest- 
ing habits  of  birds.  Forsaken  are  the  nests.  Naked  are  the 
boughs.  We  will  leave  them  for  the  winter  winds  to  ques- 
tion— and  the  winter  winds  will  ravel  more  bark  for  next 
year's  nests,  and  they  will  make  the  meadow-grasses  molt 
their  softest  wrappers  for  linings.  And  it  is  the  winter  winds 
that  will  swirl  the  dead  leaves  into  lint,  and  pull  the  weed 
stalks  into  fiber. 

Therefore,  long  live  the  winter  winds ! 


CHAPTER   XVI 

THE    ROMANCE    OF    ORNITHOLOGY 

The  birds  must  know.     Who  wisely  sings 

Will  sing  as  they. 
The  common  air  has  generous  wings: 

Songs  make  their  way. 
What  bird  is  that?    The  song  is  good, 

And  eager  eyes 
Go  peering  through  the  dusky  wood 

In  glad  surprise: 
The  birds  must  know. 

HELEN  HUNT  JACKSON. 

As  everybody  knows,  ornithology  means  a  discourse  about 
birds — and  people  have  discoursed  about  birds  ever  since 
spoken  or  written  language  gave  us  the  means  of  exchanging 
thoughts. 

In  the  Biblical  history  of  the  creation,  birds  occurred  in 
the  fifth  epoch  of  time,  when  the  evolution  of  grass  and  herbs 
and  trees  and  seeds  and  fruits  had  made  for  them  a  paradise. 
With  the  grass  and  trees  and  seeds  and  fruits  had  evolved  a 
variable  diet  for  the  feathered  folk,  and  by  instinct  they  have 
continued  to  follow  after  their  food,  migrating  on  merry  tours 
the  wide  world  over.  Lovers  of  them  from  earliest  dates  have 
discoursed  of  their  ways  and  means,  of  their  habits,  their 
favorite  resorts,  their  uses  relative  to  cultivation  of  lands,  their 
faults  in  connection  with  civilization.  Students  of  nature 
have  divided  the  birds  into  "classes  "  and  "species,"  as  the 
human  race  itself  is  divided.  As  "order  is  heaven's  first 
law,'*  ornithologists  have  taught  us  to  distinguish  it  in  the 

144 


The  Romance  of  Ornithology       145 

study  of  birds;  and  so  we  have  the  "groups,"  always  with 
reference  to  individual  habits  and  anatomical  peculiarities. 

In  the  Old  World,  ornithology  as  a  science  dates  perhaps 
from  Aristotle,  384  years  before  Christ.  True,  he  was  a 
teacher  of  A,  B,  C's  on  the  subject,  but  he  set  students  to 
"thinking."  But  there  were  students  before  Aristotle;  if  not 
students  of  science,  they  were  students  of  religion.  It  is  to 
religion  in  many  forms  that  we  owe  the  romance  of  orni- 
thology. We  may  call  this  phase  of  the  subject  "supersti- 
tion." The  word  itself  is  almost  gruesome  to  the  unlettered 
imagination.  It  suggests  uncanny  things,  ghosts  and  gob- 
lins, and  other  creatures  that  are  supposed  to  wander  around 
in  the  dark,  because  they  were  never  seen  at  midday  or  any 
other  time.  To  the  educated  person  actual  faith  in  ghosts 
and  goblins  has  given  place  to  a  mildly  fanciful  imagination 
which  indulges  in  the  flavor  of  superstition,  as  one  takes  light 
desserts  after  a  full  meal.  And  so  we  have  the  romance  of 
superstition  for  the  intelligent. 

Stopping  to  consider  that  the  word  itself  means  a  "stand- 
ing still"  to  "stare"  at  something,  an  attitude  of  reverence, 
so  to  speak,  we  see  how  religion  in  ornithology  preceded  the 
romance  of  it.  Certain  of  the  birds  waited  on  the  deities,  or 
had  access  to  their  presence,  in  consequence  of  which  they 
were  set  apart  and  protected.  Sometimes  they  were  prophets 
of  the  gods,  foretelling  future  events  with  accuracy.  Their 
flights  were  noted  by  religious  devotees,  who,  unconsciously 
to  themselves  probably,  and  certainly  unsuspected  by  their 
followers,  were  sure  to  be  "out"  at  migration  times.  At 
such  times,  should  the  birds  choose  a  natural  course  past  a 
city  and  be  seen  only  after  they  had  left  it  behind  them,  the 
prophet  knew,  in  the  depths  of  his  religious  being,  that  the 


146  Birds  of  Song  and  Story 

gods  had  doomed  that  city.  It  was  only  when  the  study  of 
birds  as  an  actual  science  developed  the  fact  that  these  deni- 
zens of  the  air  depended  more  upon  climate  and  necessary 
diet  than  upon  the  will  of  gruesome  gods  that  the  religion  of 
ornithology  gave  place  to  romance.  And  romance  is  the 
after-dinner  course  of  real  ornithology — romance  lends  a  fanci- 
ful touch  to  figures  and  data,  and  apologizes  to  the  average 
student  for  intermissions  that  seem  dedicated  to  frolic. 

In  the  universe  of  romance,  North  America  has  its  full 
share.  Preceding  the  romance  was,  and  still  is  (among  the 
native  tribes),  the  religion  of  superstition.  The  deities  fore- 
tell certain  death  of  persons  among  the  Eskimos  by  the  pass- 
ing of  a  bluejay  or  the  croak  of  a  raven. 

Our  own  poet,  Edgar  Allan  Poe,  was  not  an  Eskimo, 
but  he  indulged  in  the  well-known  superstitions  about  the 
bird  when  he  permitted  the  raven  to  perch  above  his  door. 
Many  of  the  Arctic  tribes  are  known  to  protect  the  ominous 
bird  to  this  day.  The  Indians  of  Alaska  revere  and  even  fear 
it,  like  a  black  spirit  from  the  land  of  demons. 

Song  and  story  among  American  aborigines  are  replete 
with  bird  superstition.  So  prominent  was  it  that  early  his- 
torians made  mention  of  it  to  preserve  it,  and  students  of 
languages  are  putting  it  into  books,  so  that  romance  and 
legend  may  not  pass  away  with  our  native  Indians. 

The  government  itself  is  preserving  the  history  of  Ameri- 
can superstition  among  its  precious  archives.  Reports  of  the 
Ethnological  Bureau  are  entertaining  reading  for  vacation 
times.  True,  they  are  " heavy  volumes"  in  some  cases,  but 
there  are  supplements.  Were  these  reports  placed  in  more 
school  and  other  libraries,  the  inclination  to  read  more 
objectionable  and  not  half  so  entertaining  literature  would 


The  Romance  of  Ornithology       147 

go  quickly  out,  like  a  fire-proof  match,  without  burning  the 
fingers. 

To  those  who  find  a  fascination  in  prehistoric  legends  the 
study  of  bird  representation  on  the  ancient  pottery  of  some 
of  our  western  Indians,  and  in  the  mounds  of  the  Mississippi 
Valley,  is  offered  in  some  of  these  government  reports.  They 
are  a  very  mine  of  suggestion  and  information.  Imagination, 
subtle  guide  to  many  a  self-entertaining  mind,  runs  fast  and 
faster  on  before  while  one  reads,  and  one  wonders  how  it 
came  to  pass  one  never  knew  about  government  reports 
before. 

The  Ethnological  Bureau  is  the  poet's  corner  of  our  gov- 
ernment— the  romance  of  our  dull  facts  and  figures.  Without 
its  unsleeping  eye  forever  scanning  the  sky  of  unwritten  litera- 
ture for  gems,  how  would  some  of  us  know  about  the  history 
of  the  human  race  as  preserved  by  the  Iroquois  Indians? 
And  that  birds  had  a  wing,  if  not  a  hand,  in  the  peopling  of 
America  at  least? 

Of  course  America  was  "all  the  world"  to  these  Indians, 
and  naturally  enough  their  priests  and  poets  combined  to 
give  some  adequate  genesis  for  the  people. 

It  is  said  that  a  story,  once  started  on  its  rounds  in  civil- 
ized society,  gathers  facts  and  things  as  it  goes,  until  at  last — 
and  not  before  very  long — its  own  original  parent  "wouldn't 
recognize  it."  Not  so  the  legends  that  have  come  to  us 
through  savage  tongues.  Simple  to  start  with,  they  maintain 
their  original  type  without  a  trace  of  addition.  What  stu- 
dents gather  for  us  of  folk-lore  is  as  correct  as  though  the  first 
text  had  been  copyrighted  by  its  author.  Note  this  simpli- 
city in  all  barbaric  legends,  the  discourse  coming  straight  to 
the  facts  and  leaving  off  when  it  is  done. 


148  Birds  of  Song  and  Story 

This  one  legend  referred  to  of  the  origin  of  the  human 
race  makes  so  good  a  preface  to  the  closing  rhyme  of  our 
text,  that  we  are  tempted  to  give  it  for  that  special  purpose. 
According  to  this  story  of  the  Iroquois  Indians,  it  is  to  birds 
that  woman  owes  her  history.  Unconsciously  to  these 
natives  of  America,  they  identified  woman  with  birds  and 
birds'  wings  for  all  time.  Unconsciously,  perhaps,  to  herself, 
woman  has  also  identified  her  sex  with  birds  and  bird  wings, 
though  in  a  different  relation  to  that  of  the  Iroquois.  The 
legend  will  need  no  further  introduction  to  the  girl  or  woman 
of  America  who  may  become  interested  in  '  'Birds  of  Song  and 
Story." 

There  was  once  a  time  when  all  the  earth  was  hidden 
under  great  waters.  No  island  or  continent  gave  foothold. 
No  tree,  torn  from  its  moorings,  afforded  rest  to  tired  foot  or 
wing;  for  finny  and  winged  people  were  all  the  inhabitants  in 
being.  Birds  soared  unceasingly  in  the  air,  and  fish  disported 
their  beautiful  armor-plate  in  the  water.  In  the  conscious- 
ness of  bird  and  fish  there  was  need  of  higher  intelligences 
than  themselves.  They  watched  and  waited  for  some  hint, 
some  glimpse,  of  other  and  superior  beings.  One  day  the 
birds,  congregating  in  the  sky,  discoursing  on  this  very  matter, 
beheld  a  lovely  woman  dropping  out  of  the  far  blue.  Hur- 
riedly they  talked  of  possible  means  of  saving  her  from  drown- 
ing, for  they  had  a  subtle  sense  that  this  falling  object,  with 
arms  oustretched  like  wings,  was  the  being  they  hoped  for. 
One  of  their  number,  a  prophet,  suggested  the  means.  As 
the  lovely  being  dropped  toward  the  great  sea  the  birds  came 
together  and  lapped  wings  over  wings  in  a  thick  feathered 
island.  Upon  the  soft  deck  of  this  throbbing  life-boat  the 
beautiful  being  descended  and  lay  panting.  Slowly  and 


The  Romance  of  Ornithology       149 

lovingly  her  soft  hand  caressed  the  wings  of  her  benefactors. 
She  lifted  the  variously  tinted  plumage  of  the  breasts  on 
which  she  reclined,  and  kissed  the  down  of  them. 

That  was  long,  long  ago !  We  will  conclude  our  text  with 
the  ending  of  the  poem  preceding  the  first  chapter  in  our 
book,  repeating  four  lines  of  the  same,  and  dedicating  this 
same  "ending"  to  the  Birds. 

While  the  church-bell  rings  its  discourse 

They  are  sitting  on  the  spires; 
Psalm  and  anthem,  song  and  carol, 

Quaver  as  from  mystic  lyres. 

Wing  and  throat  are  in  a  tremor, 

While  they  pay  their  Sunday  dues, 
And  escorted  by  the  ushers, 

They  are  sitting  in  the  pews. 

Oh,  the  travesty  of  worship! 

Perched  above  each  reverent  face, 
Sit  these  feathered  sacrifices, 

Closely  pinioned  to  their  place. 

Chant  a  dirge  for  woman's  pity, 

Choir,  before  the  text  is  read! 
Sing  a  requiem  for  compassion, 

Woman's  tenderness  is  dead. 

On  her  head  are  funeral  emblems; 

She  has  made  herself  a  bier 
For  the  martyred  birds  who,  shroudless, 

Coffinless,  are  waiting  here. 

Eyes  dilate  and  forms  distorted, 

Praying  as  in  dumb  distress, 
Poising,  crouching,  reeling,  swooning, 

Supplicating  wretchedness. 


150  Birds  of  Song  and  Story 


Twisted  into  shapes  so  ghastly, 

Frightful,  grim,  disconsolate; 
Writhing  in  a  moveless  torture, 

Passion  inarticulate. 

Call  it  "love  of  what  is  lovely," 
"  Choice  of  best  in  nature's  grace," 

Back  of  all  the  giddy  tangle 
Lurks  the  tradesman's  wily  face. 

E.G. 


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